


Upon This Altar

by FortinbrasFTW



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Angel Dean Winchester, Angel Sam Winchester, Apocalypse, Biblical References, Christian Mythology, Demon Bela Talbot, F/F, F/M, Human Crowley, Hunter Castiel, Hunter Lucifer, Hunter Michael, M/M, POV Castiel, POV Lucifer, Revelation, Supernatural Reverseverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 19:52:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 83,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FortinbrasFTW/pseuds/FortinbrasFTW
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes two angels on a snowy night to bring hunters Luke and Castiel Milton together again for the first time in decades - well, two angels and a looming apocalypse. As their brother Michael hurries to open the Seven Seals that separate humanity from it's final judgement, the hunters and their angels have to struggle against heaven, hell, and all the morals in between to try and save the world and the all the mortals who have unwillingly filled it. That is, if in the end, it really is worth saving.</p><p>**WARNING: this fic is uncompleted and I may not return to it. Apologies and thank you!**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tidings of Joy

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys - first off, the usuals: this story has a tag in tumblr and it's ["Upon This Altar"](http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/upon-this-altar), track it for updates, notes, comments, etc.  
> Mix and graphics coming soon. Probably sooner than usual.
> 
> This is a story I have wanted to do for a while but have held back because it is of a very epic scale. We're going to be traveling through a series of biblical based mythologies and plenty of revelations lore, with lots of characters and action. It will be intense and it will be long, so I guess buckle up and get ready for a big one.
> 
> Quick note: this does not stick totally to supernatural angel lore (which is a little chaotic anyways), pulling some elements in general and others from biblical mythology. In this universe, angels do not take vessels (unlike supernatural), and can have children in their own way (like in Paradise Lost), but all of this will become clear as the story progresses.
> 
> And finally, as always, thanks for reading!

It’s a cold night but that’s alright, the stars are brighter for it. They stand out sharp overhead, peering through the bare branches of the trees, the moon casting it’s long shadows through the forest.

His breathe catches in the air, evaporating on the cold. It hangs for a moment, gently drifting upwards as if it considers reaching the stars and then it’s gone. The cold has always felt good to him, cleansing, the smell: crisp, sharp, and full. No other season has the same edge. Summer, fall, and spring, they smell of everything inside the season, trees and life and even death. In winter, there’s nothing left on the air but the cold. Sometimes he wonders if that’s what nothing smells like, if even in a vacuum or void, cold is always the same. He squints up at the stars. Stupid thought.

There’s a groan behind him. He turns, heel twisting over the white blanket of snow underfoot. The long and lean shadows of the trees slant over the face of the female tied to the tree, obscuring her eyes. She tilts her head back and then to the side with another pained sound.

Awake. Finally.

His hand easily wraps around the knife on his hip, slipping the blade free and spinning it once around his thumb. The moon bounces off the cold surface with a dull shine as his hand eases against the familiar leather handle, finger tracing the runes carved there.

She tilts her head up, finally focusing enough to see him through the tendrils of blonde hair.

Luke's blue eyes shine pale against the snow. He smiles. “Merry Christmas.”

 

He’s always loved Christmas, even if it somehow ends up the same shadowy way year after year. There's a certain comfort to that, his own sort of traditional security. At least that's one way to look at it. There was nothing better to do on Christmas than ensuring the peace of others after all.

He’d tried a soup kitchen one year, volunteering to man the ladles with the others, at least attempting to do something more inline with the season. He’d noticed a wrong gleam to one man’s eyes hardly an hour in and ended up shoving a ram’s horn soaked in virgin blood through his chest in the back alley before midnight. He’d spent the rest of that Christmas Night cutting up the body so he could drag it down to the ocean without too much hassle.

And it looked like tonight the tradition would continue.

“Look Inspector Gadget, you’re making a mistake.”

He turns back to the man tied to the chair, sighing in the smell of snow and rot filling the half collapsed house. His coat trails out behind him. It’s never been warm, but there’s a certain comfort to habit. “I don’t think so.”

The thing in the chair starts to laugh, spitting out a mouthful of blood. He flicks his head in an attempt to get the strands of dark hair out of his face. He’s pale, stubbled, wearing one of those airbrushed wilderness t-shirts. Wolves. Bison. The right knee of his jeans is still ripped open from when he hit the ground earlier that night, even if the wide gash on his knee has long since closed. He grins and even in the darkness it’s easy enough to see the shine on the extra teeth that slip down sharp and bright from the red of his gums.

“Hey,” the thing holds up both his hands where they're tied to the arms of the old chair, “I’m just looking out for you man, because I’m sure there’s those out looking me right now. Not that it wouldn’t be festive as all hell to paint this place with your innards when my brothers crash this party, just might not be the holiday you have in mind's all.”

Castiel can’t help smiling. “On the contrary, I am a bit of a traditionalist.”

With a sharp flick of his wrist the water rushes out of the flask, slashing across the monster’s face. Screams slice through the cold, the familiar smell of burned flesh oozes into the air.

“Where’s the nest?”

 

“I’m not telling you shit,” she snarls through her teeth, a few more than she had several minutes ago.

“I didn’t ask you anything,” Luke notes, giving the knife a few more spins as he steps back and forth over the snow.

“Oh, sorry,” she eases back against the tree behind her trying to get better purchase on the snow with her sharp black boots. “I guess I just assumed since a fucking hunter had me tied to a tree in the ass end of nowhere you might be interested in some answers.”

“You’d think.” He frowns down at the knife. It really should be sharpened, especially after tonight. Maybe when he gets back. “The thing is, you already know the questions, so I’d rather not waste time with semantics. Especially, on such a lovely evening.”

“Go to hell,” she spits.

“Been.” He looks at her, blue eyes calm and cold in the sharp air. “Unfortunately, the climate didn’t agree with me. Couldn’t stick around.”

Suddenly, she’s a lot less chatty. Her body stills - no, tenses - all tight muscles waiting to attack. He huffs out a short laugh. The animal always peers through sooner or later.

“Funny holiday,” he murmurs, looking up to where the pale face of the moon cuts through the sky. “Lights and hope and plenty. But,” he turns on his heel, “we know different, don’t we?”

She doesn’t answer him. Her eyes are still wide, tracking each and every one of his motions as he paces steadily back and forth.

“We know it’s not about the light: it’s about the dark. Fear, and a price that must be paid.”

He stops, a few feet away, looking down at the knife in his hands. He let’s the blade slip against the pad of his thumb, just enough to spill a drop onto the snow.

“Darkness, and blood to pray it away. That’s the Christmas we know, isn’t it?”

She watches him, unflinching. “Who are you?”

“I wonder sometimes,” he continues seamlessly, “what would happen, if no one paid that price. If one year, somehow, the blood wasn’t spilled. Would the sun rise? Would the days lengthen?” He glances up, sliding the knife from his skin. “What do you think?”

Her hands are moving behind her back, fumbling at the ties. It won’t make a difference. But he’d have be disappointed if she hadn't tried.

“I suppose you don’t really think do you,” he frowns. “And let’s not kid ourselves, it’s an eternally hypothetical question.”

“What’s your name?” she hisses.

Luke kneels down, eye to eye. “I think you know.”

 

“I. Don’t. _Know!_ ” The thing manages it, barely. His skin is still hissing, the silver spikes holding his hands in place are sending thin tendrils of smoke twisting up towards the caved in rafters.

Castiel eases his knife into his hand. “Where is the nest?”

“Am I speaking fucking Yiddish?!” His boots scrap against the floor, trying to gain enough purchase to break free, which would be easier without wooden pegs driven through his ankles.

“Where is the nest?”

“Jesus _fucking_ —!”

Castiel's knife slams into his knee.

The scream rips out of him, muffled under the snow and the rotten boards above.

Castiel keeps his hand on the blade, teeth tight. “Where is the nest?”

The vampire lets out a whimper, eyes screwed shut, airbrushed wolves diced to pieces across his chest and soaked into scarlet.

Castiel twists the knife. The screams catch on a sob, the body under the blade starting to shake. He doesn’t stop.

“Where--” he pulls, dragging the blade.

“No-“ the voice is almost too broken to be understood, “Stop! Plea—”

“Is--” he moves, cutting through the muscle of his thigh, higher, higher. The pain bubbles out of the body under him, whimpers and prayers and curses all flowing thoughtless, helpless.

“--the nest?”

“Stop-- please, just—“

“Tell me.”

The thing’s eyes screw shut, swollen against the burnt blisters. “I will just— just—“ he swallows, throat bobbing, teeth sliding in an out against the pain, “I will if you let me go, just let me go.”

Castiel pushes the knife deeper. “You’ll warn them.”

“So fucking leave me here, leave me here I don’t care, just _stop - GOD PLEASE!”_

Castiel stands up, sliding the knife free with a thick sound. His companion gasps, eyes falling open as the meat of his leg hangs, gaping and steaming, against the cold air.

“Where?” He stands tall, ready to continue.

“Promise me,” the vampire grits through his teeth, eyes furious, desperate, “promise me you’ll let me go.”

Castiel holds his stare, eyes dark blue, brows heavy. “I promise.”

 

“This won’t hurt a bit,” Luke reaches a hand into his pocket. He stops. “I mean of course, it won't hurt  _after_ you tell me what I need to know.”

She starts kicking, grinding her feet back and forth and twisting against the ropes.

He clicks his tongue. “Stop that. I might miss. Bit of a butterfingers.”

Her eyes are turning in their sockets, head thrashing, teeth grinding together. His hand closes around cold metal in his pocket and he pulls the weapon free.

She stops twisting. “… Seriously?”

He frowns down at his hand. “What?”

A grin starts to spread over her face. “… A fucking flashlight?”

“Tis the season.”

His knife flashes, cutting so fast she barely has to time feel it before he’s snapping the light on in his hand on and shoving the thing deep inside the gaping hole in her gut.

She screams. Loudly.

Luke winces. He’s really going to have to get earplugs one of these days, and that roasted stomach smell is going to ruin his appetite again.

He gives it ten seconds. Well, maybe twenty. He switches the flashlight off finally, leaving it where it is.

She gasps, smoke flowing out of her lips and smelling a little bit like pork roast. She tries to take a breath, broken, wet. A small line of blood slips out of the corner of one eye.

“Now, I can only do that a few more times,” He says eyeing the wound. “Or else your throat will burn out, and we can’t afford that.”

Luke leans back, turning his head to look at her through the slanted shadows of the trees. “Funny thing, I didn’t even know they made UV flashlights. Internet. I honestly don’t know how we ever lived without it.”

She tries to say something, or at least express something, but she can’t quite seem to manage. It comes out more of a gurgle than anything else, along with about a cup of dark blood down her chin.

“Now, I could tell you that you’ll be fine, that I’ll stop if you tell me. But, well, I just can’t bring myself to lie on Christmas.”

Her eyes drag up to his face, one is burnt out, blown and bloodied.

“Truth is you’re not healing that. Ever. And we both know you’re not dying from it either. So, that makes things simple doesn’t it?”

Her mouth hangs, she moves it up and down as if trying to gain control of her throat again. The steady drip-drop of blood gathers in the snow under them.

He plants his hands on his knees and stands up with a stretch. One hand slips to the other side of his waist and slides the machete free. It doesn’t shine with the same silver the knife does in the cold, just one thin line of silver along the very edge.

“You have five minutes. Then I do it again.”

 

“There’s a train station, about two miles into the woods - an old dirt road get you there but it’s mostly gone now.”

“I know. I’ve been. There was nothing.” Castiel says.

The vampire laughs through his broken teeth. “Fucking hunters, never looking for more than they expect to see.”

The knife’s a little heavy in his fingers. He plants it in his other knee.

“GOD - fucking—!”

“Where?”

“Tunnels!” he grits. “There’s tunnels, the tracks cut through the hill, but there’s a door just inside, there’s tunnels under the tracks. Old mine maybe.”

Castiel puts his hand around the hilt of the knife. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, fuck, take it out - take it the fuck out-”

Castiel watches him for a minute longer before dragging the knife free, maybe with a little twist on the end. He turns away, walking a few yards off to where the snow is piling in through one of the broken windows. Kneeling down he runs the blade over the snow, cleaning off the blood before pushing the trench coat aside and sliding it back onto his hip.

“You’re going there?” the broken voice behind him asks. “… Alone?”

He doesn’t answer, straightening up and reaching under his coat again, feeling for everything he knows should be there. He turns back towards him, stepping over the debris scattered across the ground. The wind picks up suddenly, sending the cold cutting through the hollowed shell of the house.

“Yes.”

The vampire snorts, spitting a mouthful of blood across the floor and just missing Castiel's boots. “Then you better untie me fucking now because there’s no way you’re—”

There’s a dull thunk.

It’s a clean cut. The vampire's head doesn’t even fall, expression frozen, suspended above the cleaver sticking into the back of the chair.

 

Luke pulls his blade free, sending her head down to the ground with a soft sound.

Not bad. Twenty minutes. Longer than the last three lasted. He cuts her binds, sending the body collapsing into the snow with the rest.

The train station. Tunnels. He should have checked more thoroughly. Ah well, doesn’t matter, better to go fully prepared. Tomorrow. Daylight.

He takes a deep breath, letting the cold fill up his lungs once more before turning back towards the truck behind them. He spins the flashlight a few times and pockets it. Should probably change the batteries. Just to be safe.

He reaches for the door, feeling the icy metal under his fingertips.

He stops.

His eyes tighten, looking down at his hands on the handle. Something’s wrong.

His gun’s in his hand in less than a second. He's turning, pointing. His breath mists hard against the cold and then it catches in his chest.

She’s standing. Standing, and hardly a foot away.

Her head’s askew, as if it didn’t fit back onto her neck quite right. Through the hole in her stomach he can just see the snow shining behind her.

Her mouth falls open: broken, black, and suddenly the world is altogether too still.

 

_“COME AND SEE.”_

 

The sound echoes through the abandoned building. The voice isn’t right. It’s not the sharp jagged thing that was swearing through it’s teeth minutes ago. It doesn’t even seem to come from the thing’s throat. It comes from something else, something deeper, something distant.

Castiel doesn’t know how he got out of the chair. He doesn’t know how he’s even moving. The head hangs, half the skin still detached, the muscles of it’s leg flapping open to the bone where he'd cut.

Castiel fires. The bullet crashes through the center of the thing’s skull. It doesn’t even flinch. It’s still moving. The eyes - they’re empty, hollow. Dead.

Castiel empties the magazine. It doesn’t stop walking towards him.

 

Luke's hand snaps to the blade under his coat, dropping the empty gun into the snow at his feet. He slices for her.

She catches his hand. And twists.

The scream shatters out of him as he falls, knees going out under his body as he stares at the bone that’s sheered jaggedly through the skin of his wrist. She doesn’t stop. She’s going to rip it off.

Luke grits his teeth, kicking her thigh as hard as he can. Her knee pops out of place with a snap. Her grip doesn’t loosen. She just slips to one side, sagging. He gasps, vision going black, foggy. Another bone snaps. He grabs his knife.

 

The knife slams through an airbrushed bison into the thing’s chest. Castiel gasps, dragging the blade all the way down, sending innards tumbling free, misting into the cold. It doesn’t stop moving.

A hand snatches around his throat like iron. Impossible. Freezing.

Castiel gasps, tries to breath. Fails. He moves to kick the monster's knees out from under him and realizes suddenly he isn’t touching the ground any longer, he’s being lifted, high, higher. The hand on his throat is stone, crushing with constant cold pressure.

Something pops. 

 

Her nails dig into Luke's throat, breaking through his skin, diving deeper.

Things are going dark all around them. Somewhere, past the pain, past the cold, his throat tries to laugh.

He’s going to die. Here. In the snow, in the middle of some shitty patch of woods in Nebraska, with one single fucking vampire’s hand around his throat. After everything. God, dad would have hated that. It’s almost perfect.

 

All at once, everything goes very bright.

 

Luke falls back. It’s cold underneath him. Snow, he remembers.

His ears are still ringing, the pain still furious, but the brightness is gone, leaving just the dark and the lines of black branches against the night sky overhead.

He feels something on his head, something burning, and suddenly the world slips back into clarity. The ringing in his ears is only a memory. The pain is gone.

 

The brightness starts to fade from the inside of his eyelids and the touch leaves his forehead. Castiel pulls his dark blue eyes open, blinking against the spots.

He’s on the floor, concrete and broken beams under him. It smells like mold and ice. He blinks, eyes refocusing. There’s a body, a familiar one. There’s feet. Unfamiliar. A hand slides into view. Open, welcoming. Castiel takes it. It’s warm, warmer than it should be in this cold.

The hand pulls him to his feet, and to his shock, he actually stands properly. Strange. His head isn’t even pounding anymore. In fact the pain is gone completely.

 

“Alright?” someone asks him.

Luke groans, looking around from where he’s lifted himself up on his elbows, snow cold under his hands. He looks at his wrist. It’s perfect. No bones jutting free, no ripped in two skin. Not even a scratch. Impossible.

“… Fine. Apparently.”

“Good.”

Something’s wrong… he knows that voice.

Luke looks up. He blinks.

“Ah... right. Of course.”

The face looks down at him, lengthy brown hair falling front of it. Tall. Jeans. Boots. Hopeful smile.

Always the same.

“So... that’s it then?” Luke sits up a little better, bending his knees against the blanketed forest floor. “I can’t pretend I’m not surprised. I didn’t think heaven was actually something I'd end up with when it all came down to it.”

“What?” The heavy brows furrow, that small wrinkle forming between them, eyes concerned. Always so fucking concerned.

Luke stands. “Don’t I have to get through some gilded door first or something? Have to say I’ve always been a bit curious about ol’ Saint Peter. Or is that all bullshit?”

The face looks back at him with a quizzical expression. “You’re not dead.”

Luke sighs. “It’s alright, really. About damn time actually.”

“You’re not dead.” He repeats.

“Yeah, right,” Luke rolls his neck, gesturing quickly with his head, “but we both know  _you’re_ not real and never have been, so, you know…”

The attractive face in front of his frowns, looking down at the snow uncomfortably. “Actually…”

Luke squints. Something’s wrong... This isn’t right. This isn't know it usually is when they're together, it isn’t how it’s supposed to be. The world is still coming into focus around him, but it is the world. The same old wretched world.

Luke looks down at the body on the ground. It’s steaming into the air, the eyes are hollow, crisp shells in place of sockets, lips charred around the edges. He didn't do that. He couldn't do that.

He takes a sharp step back, hand finding it’s way to his hip again.

The figure in front of him watches, expression accepting, as if he’d suspected as much, even if it’s a disappointment to him. He doesn’t step forward as Luke steps back, doesn’t chase him.

“Luke…” He tries.

“Don’t.” Luke says sharply. He holds the knife tight between his fingers, trying to convince his brain not to completely shut down on him against the panic suddenly slamming into it. He grits his teeth. “What are you?”

 

Castiel doesn’t step back, even if he wants to. The smell of burned flesh is heavy, crisp against the cold all around them.

He squints at the man across from him, evaluating.

The face looking back at him seems to find the entire situation rather amusing, if the smug smile is anything to go by. He's tall. A little taller than himself: chin lifted, stare arrogant. Green eyes. Handsome, no, pretty really, especially with those freckles.

“You’re welcome,” the man grins.

Castiel looks down, eyeing the burnt out corpse. “What happened here?”

“You got your ass kicked is what happened," the voice returns.

“After. What happened after?”

The man gives the corpse at his feet a little kick, leaning to one side to give it another look before smiling at Castiel again. “Uh, me.”

It’s a large smile. Bright. Easy. But there’s something assumed about it as well, something performed.

He’d have his knife out already but he really doubts it will make any difference. “Why?”

“Because,” the man’s eyes light up as if that’s the question he’s been waiting for. He leans forward, arms lifting to either side. Suddenly, the room feels very full, the shadows all around them shuddering unnaturally. There's a smell of the electric caught in the air. “I’m—“

“An angel?” Castiel interrupts.

The energy in the room staggers. The angel’s face shifts half shock, half disappointment. “... Seriously?”

Castiel looks down at the body again, swallowing. “Yes. I believe so.”

The angel frowns. “… You sort of ruined that moment you know.”

Castiel stays calm, keeping his face still even if is heart is pounding in his chest. He holds his ground. “You haven’t answered my question. Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why save me?”

“Maybe it’s your lucky day,” it smiles cockily.

“It’s never my lucky day,” Castiel corrects.

"It doesn't matter," the angel shrugs and something in his eyes flares. Outside the wind rips with fury and suddenly the slanting moonlight is casting more shadows than before, shadows that rise slowly along both sides of the wall unfurling and spreading with feathered shape and power.

“I’ve come to save you,” the angel says, “Michael Milton.”

Oh no.

Castiel clears his throat.

The shadows on the walls fade just slightly. The angel frowns. “What?”

“I’m not--” he swallows. “I’m not actually Michael.”

The angel stares. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not Michael. He's my brother. I think you may have made a mistake.”

Something flares in the green eyes. “No. That’s impossible. I did everything right, no - _you’re the one_. You’re Michael!” the wind outside takes it up a few notches. “You have to be!”

“I understand it’s a disappointment,” Castiel sighs, “it often is.”

“Then who the fuck are you?!”

He looks up, blue eyes tired. “Castiel. Castiel Milton.”

 

It’s started to snow again, but it doesn’t matter. Luke holds against it, refusing to blink. He steps back until he can feel the truck securely behind him.

“You're an angel?”

“Yes.”

“An angel?”

“Yes.”

He stares. “… Is this some fucking joke?”

The angel gives him a pitying look. “I don’t think it would be a very good one if it was,” he sighs, shaking his head slightly. “Luke, you don’t need to be afraid. You know me.”

“I don’t,” Luke says instantly, voice low and stern. “I really, _really_ don’t.”

The expression looking back at him could be sad, but it’s hard to tell exactly through the falling snow.

“I don’t believe in angels,” Luke says.

The face he shouldn't know smiles softly. “Even if they believe in you?”

Luke swallows, adjusting his grip on the knife, glancing quickly down at the burned out corpse still steaming in the snow.

“What happened to her? Before you I mean. She was dead. What happened?”

The angel looks back at him, stare hardening in the cold. “The beginning of the end.”

Luke looks away from the body. It doesn’t matter. He tried to focuses, tries to keep his hands from shaking. He can’t actually remember the last time he had to try to do that…

“Go," he says firmly. "I want you to go.”

There it is again, that pained lonely expression. Luke ignores it.

“I’m sorry," the angel says. "I can’t do that.”

“You can.” Luke tightens his grip. “You will. Now.”

There’s a sigh. It’s tired, far more tired than someone who looks that young should sound. But that’s wrong isn’t it. He’s not young. He’s never been young, not really. He’s never even been _real_ before now.

“I can’t," the angel persists.

“Why?” Luke's hands are going numb on the knife in the cold. All around them the snow continues to fall, filling the space with noise so soft it becomes silence.

“Because,” a small smile flits across the familiar face and suddenly his eyes are bright even in the darkness. “You’re going to save the world.”


	2. Carpooling

It’s early still. It must be. There’s hardly any sunlight slipping through the cracks in the blinds, just one pale grey line cutting across the motel room floor and up the opposite wall. Luke’s been watching it for about half an hour now, keeping tabs as it creeps steadily up the wretched wallpaper with the brightening of the day.

How long has he been awake? It’s been a while since he’s honestly had to ask himself that question.

He runs through the usual causes for the question. He isn’t hung over. That’s interesting. He doesn’t have a headache, so concussion is probably out, in fact he can’t remember the last time he felt this fresh after a hunt. Did he even hunt last night?

He feels as if he did. He remembers catching the vampire, knocking her out, dragging her into the back of the truck. He remembers driving into the woods, all snow and moonlight, tying her to the tree with quick efficient knots. He remembers questioning her, getting his answers, and that’s when things begin to get… strange.

The memories are there, haunting him with sharp and vicious clarity. He remembers something that was definitely dead suddenly defying that definition. He remembers the feeling of his wrist bone sheering through the flesh of his arm, the skin continuing the tear, another bone snapping. He remembers the light and the feeling of fingers on his forehead.

He remembers him.

He remembers what he'd said to him. And he remembers turning right around, getting in his truck, and driving until he couldn’t see the forest any longer.

And now here he is. Back in a mildew smelling bed, not sure of what was real and what wasn't.

He pulls his arm free from the blankets, pushing the other behind his head. He rolls his wrist back and forth before his face, squinting at it in the relative darkness. All normal. He must have dreamed it. That's makes the most sense. That face, the brooding brow and absurd hair, it belongs flitting between dreams, all sympathetic stares, and curious tones. Sad. Somehow always sad. It had been just the same last night, the exact same as it always was when he saw him. And that’s why it was so impossible. He’s a dream. He’s always been a dream. Nothing more.

But last night's dream wasn’t right. Those dreams usually end… differently. They’re altogether different when he considers about it: they’re safe and comfortable, always have been, and last night was just the opposite. In those dreams, with him, he’s never been afraid.

Actually, he can’t remember exactly the last time he felt afraid before last night. It had been years, at least, not since before hell most likely. And even last night, he hadn’t been afraid when he thought he was dying. He hadn't even been afraid when he thought he was dead. But then he had been there, standing in those woods between falling snow. Suddenly everything was wrong, and he had been afraid.

 _Angel_. He'd said he was an angel. There’s no such thing. He should know. Michael and their father tried hard enough to get their attention over the years, and if anyone would have succeeded in uncovering heaven it was them. But no one ever came. No one ever listened.

 _Save the world. The beginning of the end._ Did angels seriously go around packing such cliches? Seems hard to believe, albeit mythologically sound.

Luke groans, rolling over and finally sitting up properly.

It doesn’t matter. None of it. Even if last night  _had_ been real, which is a fairly enormous if, _he_ is certainly not saving the world. He’s seen enough of that for one lifetime. And jesus, he really should stop talking to himself like some crotchety old man.

Luke stands with a stretch and shuffles barefoot across the densely carpeted floor, flicking on the sickly-toned overhead in the bathroom as he heads in.

He leans, both hands on the counter and take a deep breath. He straightens, looking back at himself in the mirror.

Well, nothing much seems to have changed there, even if his body does feels healthier than it has for years. His short hair’s still ashy blond, and still seems to have a problem staying all in one direction. Pale eyes are still tired, stubble still persistent. And everything else looks about right as well. He’s still fit, which is more accident than anything else. You can only get thrown through ancient brick walls, shove through fist fight with shifters, and somehow end up naked with nothing but a brûlée torch and a rubber band in a Wendigo cave so many times before getting an upper hand in physical fitness.

The scars are still there too, all of them as far as he can tell. There’s the clean diagonal cut down the side of his neck from that harpy when he was eleven. His shoulder has that mass of twisted skin about six inches wide where a Rugaru thought he looked especially rare.There’s the neat line of three Okami scratches that curl around his abdomen (he’s actually a bit fond of those).

All the knuckles of his right hand still have the traces of circular burns. His palm on the same hand remains unnaturally smooth, most of the lines seared off, his only scars left from hell. Those have their own benefits. He hasn’t had fingerprints on that hand since.

Finally, Luke's hand traces over a clean and relatively small white line just above the left side of his chest. Still there. He frowns. He could do without that one.

It's strange though, the scars are still there but there’s no deepening bruises. He knows he should have at least one where he hit that dumpster when she fought back the day before, but there’s nothing. And now that he’s noticing the lack of bruises he sees there’s no scratches, no small cuts, no surface wounds, just the old map of his past carved into his skin.

He let’s his hand catch around the small leather pouch hanging around his neck, fingers feeling the familiar shapes inside: old coins, small bones, dried herbs, everything it takes to make an especially effective spell. He lets it go. He’ll need a new one before the month is out. He’ll have to plan a trip.

Luke flicks on the shower, leaving the charm around his neck as he steps under the water.

It doesn't take him long to dress. Apparently it’s a bright day out even if it looks freezing. He can see the sunlight pouring down over the parking lot as he leans to one side to look out the motel window, shrugging his leather jacket over his shoulders. Good. Bright’s exactly right for the day's work. He takes another deep sip of coffee. Just coffee. It took more effort this morning than it should have not to transform it into half bourbon.

His gun slides into place on his hip under his jeans, knife on the other side, and he pushes his way outside. The cold snaps around him instantly, pushing up where it always feels coldest: under his ears where his hair’s still a bit wet from the shower, against his nose, on his knuckles. He ignores it, slinging a duffel into the back of the truck, tugging open the familiar sounding old metal of the door, and sliding into the worn interior. The cab dangles with various charms, the same old sigils and wards carved into the dash, a few scattered fast food containers on the floor.

With a sigh he turns the keys, snaps the stick, and turns the wheel towards the abandoned train station.

 

Castiel knows he's been staring at the wiki entry page for too long.

The small line of pixels blinks on and off in the text field tauntingly: waiting, tireless. He taps his bare feet on the floor, still just in his boxers and t-shirt after his shower. He gives his damp hair a bit of a rumple, peering out the slanted blinds of the motel room window to the sunlight outside.

Castiel sighs, turning back to the laptop on the small round table.

_Angels_   
_Type: unclassified_   
_Status: unconfirmed_

He taps the up and down arrow keys, watching the little blinking line jump eagerly between categories.

_Weaknesses: unknown_   
_Strengths: unknown_   
_Distinguishing Features: unknown_

He takes a sip of his coffee, squinting at the page. He puts the mug down quickly, placing his fingers on the keys before he can think too much about it.

_Distinguishing Features: tall, freckled, arrogant, apparently not omniscient_

He frowns at the screen. His finger taps the delete button very quickly. Maybe another section…

_Strengths:_   
_-Ability to “burn out” victims, leaving no eyes, innards apparently vaporized_

He slips a hand around his neck, feeling where his windpipe had been snapped shut hardly five hours ago. There had been a touch, two fingers against his forehead...

_\- Healing abilities on touch (potentially including resurrection)_   
_\- Teleportation_

He taps down once again.

_Distinguishing Features: white bright light, shadows of winged shapes, human in appearance_

He traces the keys lightly, watching as the steam from his coffee ebbs around the screen.

_Weaknesses: fallible_

Castiel takes one more sip and shuts the computer, indulges in a quick stretch before heading for the bathroom to finishing packing up the small duffel bag that holds the majority of his life. He pulls on his jeans and ties up his boots. He eyes the laptop on the table before sliding it into his bag.

The truth is the angel isn’t his biggest concern, it’s the circumstances. The information he's entered is valuable, but it's a different anomaly that haunts hims: a vampire’s head twisted and reattached, eyes empty, mouth open, not moving. _“Come and see”_. That’s the truly disturbing incident, and the fact that an _angel_ appeared seconds later only seems to confirm that.

Well, appeared and then promptly disappeared. The angel had taken the time to kick the old wooden chair clear across the room to shatter against a wall before swearing something Castiel was half sure had been _“son of a bitch”_ , and then he'd vanished as quickly as he’d arrived, with only the slight sound of feathers left behind.

Castiel tugs his coat over his shoulders, adjusting his duffel in one hand. He shoves his way out of the motel room, blinking into the sunlight as he peers up at the clear sky. Bright. Good. Cold as well, still cold enough for his breath to steam against the morning.

Castiel heads for his car, stopping at the driver’s side door to dive his hand into his pockets, fiddling for his keys.

“Hey there, Cas," a voice smiles.

Castiel stops instantly.

He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t have to. He can see the reflection of someone over his shoulder in the glass of the driver’s side window. The reflection is tall, posture loose and arrogant.

“Are you sure you have the right person this time?” Castiel asks, focusing harder than he should on making sure the weight of his gun is right where it should be against his hip.

“No need to be a dick about it or anything,” the voice scoffs, the reflection starts to move, circling around, looking at the car with a bemused expression. “A minivan? Seriously?”

Castiel glances over his shoulder. It’s definitely him. Again. It's bizarre, there had been rumors, but he’s still surprised to see an angel in jeans and a worn cargo jacket with a flannel shirt underneath and what’s he’s almost sure is a Metallica teeshirt to top it all off.

"A minivan,” Castiel answers, “is a good vehicle for a hunter.”

The angel snorts through his nose, apparently unconvinced. “Just saying dude, single guy with a minivan and trench coat, you're sending some entrapment level creeper vibes.”

“I don’t usually spend the day circling schoolyards,” Castiel says, tugging open the door, careful to keep the angel in the corner of his eye the entire time.

He slides into his seat, shutting the door quickly behind him.

“Really though,” the voice sounds.

Castiel jumps high enough to smack his head on the ceiling. The angel’s sitting in the passenger seat, feet up on the dashboard.

“I mean the thing’s purple for christ’s sake. I thought hunters were supposed to think they were ‘badasses’, or at least reasonably awesome. This is probably the lamest vehicle I’ve ever seen.”

Castiel swallows, turning the keys in the ignition. The angel doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. He might as well go about his day. It’s almost a thirty minute ride to the train station. Maybe he’ll get bored by then and vanish again.

“The minivan works,” Castiel says, feeling the need to keep talking. “There’s plenty of room for equipment and weapons, many compartments. It’s livable if you need a place to sleep. And above all it’s a subtler option.”

The angel snorts a laugh. “Yeah, real fucking subtle. I’m sure the vamps are going to be really unsuspecting of soccer mom pulling up to their nest. Did you bring them some orange slices?”

Castiel has to resist rolling his eyes, turning the wheel out of the parking lot and onto the main road.

“What do you have in here anyways?” the angel asks, leaning over and looking into the back.

Castiel briefly considers stabbing him in the chest. But no. Bad idea.

“Terrible idea,” the angel mutters.

Well. Telekinesis will have to go on the wiki later. If he makes it to later, that is.

“You have a wiki?” the angel grins.

“Why are you here,” Castiel asks, focusing on the road.

“What? You don’t want to hang out?”

“What happened last night? With the vampire?”

The angel’s face darkens, watching the road slip past. “Nothing good.”

“I know those words,” Castiel says, glancing over at him. “ _‘Come and See’_ , they’re more than words, according to legends. They’re harbingers.”

“Oh yeah, harbingers of what?”

Castiel looks at the angel. He’s looking back at him, knowing, patient. He has green eyes. They’re bright, amused and charming, but there’s something else there as well, almost like the surface of a lake, green and bright, but hiding enigmatic beneath the surface, something unseen but never forgotten.

“The end of the world,” Castiel answers.

 

The road’s starting to slip away, pavement long gone and gravel fading into dirt under the thin layer of snow.

The train station is coming up soon. Luke doesn’t remember exactly how far he drove down this road the first time he check it, but he definitely passed that ancient speed limit sign the day before. He’ll park, see if there’s a way in other than the one she said. He has enough dead man’s blood for at least ten of them, and he’ll coat the blade. He might as well take the soaked bullets as well. Should be enough.

“You really shouldn’t be going alone, you know.”

It takes significant effort not to slam the breaks. It takes even effort more not to shoot his new passenger right through the skull.

And to not go off the road. Shit.

Luke swerves sharply, just managing to keep the truck from smashing into the thin woods.

He grits his teeth. “I thought I told you to go away.”

“Yeah, well, unfortunately there are more important things in play than what you want right now,” the angel says. He seems irritated. That’s new. And probably more satisfying than it should be.

“What?” Luke glances over at him sarcastically. “Like the end of the world?”

“Yes, actually,” the angel turns to face him. “And you know my name, you could use it. Avoiding it isn’t going to make me any less real.”

“I always hunt alone,” he says, easily ignoring him and returning to the earlier point. “But I guess you must know that.”

“Not always,” the angel notes quietly.

Luke frowns. “It’s certainly the standard.”

“It’s stupid,” the angel says.

Luke snorts. “Eloquent.”

The angel shrugs. “It is stupid.”

“It’s worked pretty well so far.”

The angel huffs out half a laugh.

Luke raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“No, no, you’re right. It’s worked out great: trapped in the siren’s lair for three weeks, letting a chubacabra run away with a mouthful of your leg, almost falling into that Shifter hole last week. Really good, working out real great.”

Luke stares for a moment before turning back to the road. “Excellent. Angelic stalker.” He rolls his hand around the wheel. “And I'll have you know that three week’s with the siren was a pretty decent vacation.”

The train station comes into view through the thin trees. Luke stops the truck a few meters back from the worn, forgotten platform.

“You’re destined for more, Luke,” the angel says, staring at him with those eyes that look as though they should be telling some soap opera patient there’s still hope. Barely.

“Yeah, right, saving the world,” Luke snaps the truck’s door open. “Sorry, but that’s not exactly my job description.”

He shuts the door behind him, leaving just the quiet of the cold and the forest. He turns, reaching in the back to grab his supplies. The angel’s leaning over the opposite side of the truck bed. Luke just manages not to jump.  _That_ is going to get old _very_ quickly.

“I thought that saving the world was pretty much _the exact_ job description," the angel says.

Luke reaches into the back, pulling out the extra ammo and loading his gun close to his hip. It's the same Ruger GP100 in Blued Finish with 6" Barrel he’s had for the past fifteen years. Six shots only, but he’s never been one to spray and pray. And with the varieties of hard to produce ammo it takes to get the job done, scenario control is significantly more valuable in his opinion than sheer numbers.

“I’m a hunter." He loads the chamber and snaps it closed. "I kill things, and I’m good at it. That’s the job description.”

“Right,” the angel continues, arm slung over the side of the truck, flannel unbuttoned at the collar like he’s just something normal, “and it doesn’t factor in at all that the things you happen to kill are murderous monsters?”

“If they weren’t, it would be considerably less fun.” Luke turns, walking away through the long dead scattering of leaves over the trail. “Now, go away.”

 

Castiel leaves the car obscured behind one of the collapsed buildings near the platform. He looks around carefully, peering past the concrete and stone towards the platform and the tunnels on either side, boring into the cold grey stone of the mountains.

He slips a hand under his trench coat, feeling the syringes secured there, slipping fingers reassuringly over the handle of his long blade. The vampire had said just inside the tunnel. Looking that way he can see inside: no door, but there is a heavy metal slab leant against one of the uneven walls.

“Looks heavy,” the smug voice notes behind his shoulder. Castiel ignores it.

He slips around the collapsed platform, moving quickly and quietly towards the slab. He doesn’t hear any footsteps behind him but he doesn’t let that fool him. He knows he’s still there.

Inside the tunnel it’s all echoes and ice, the cold somehow sharper with nothing but the stone around him.

“Over here, right? I smell vampires,” the angel grins. He's standing by the slab, dramatically sniffing.

Castiel has to stop himself from “shushing” him.

He squints. “Can you really smell them?”

The angel rolls his eyes. “Don’t be stupid, of course not,” he shrugs, “I can hear them dreaming.”

Castiel frowns. “Right of course, totally more reasonable.”

He reaches out, laying a hand on the metal slab. He locks his fingers around it, planting his foot and giving it a good shove. It doesn’t budge. Castiel steps back with a steaming breath, looking down. It’s obvious it’s been moved before, but it’s wedged deep into the dirt, old rusted metal at least ten inches thick.

“Well," Castiel sighs. "We’ll just have to—“

The angel puts a finger under one side and pushes. The slab topples, hitting the tracks nearby with a shattering clang.

“Are you insane!?” Castiel hisses sharply.

“What? Aren’t we going in?" the angel shrugs. "Or was this all just some big tease?”

Castiel glares for a second longer before grabbing the metal door that was waiting behind the slab. It tugs open with an equally nasty metallic noise. He hurries in to the dark, and smell of rot. There's a short breeze of wings behind him.

 

The sound of metal echoes through the thin woods. Luke freezes, a few birds take off into the sky with short cries.

“That can’t be good," the angel says. 

Luke ignores him, hurrying towards the train station. It looks as empty as it did before, crumbled platform, lost to time and more relevant inventions. A few bare saplings poke through the old wooden boards, shrubs merging with the crumbled concrete. Straight tracks lead into opposite sides of the open jaws carved out of the rock. He moves quickly and quietly towards the hidden doorway.

When he gets there, it’s open.

“Well, that’s interesting,” the angel says, peering over his shoulder and into the darkness.

“Very helpful,” Luke grumbles.

He adjusts his grip on the gun, eyeing the metal slab. Silently, he steps inside.

It certainly feels like a vampire nest, dank, dark, complete with the dry copper smell of blood and that strange scent they always have that he thinks is almost exactly like Axe body spray. Which is strange, because they’ve always smelled like that even before the product was doused on every frat boy who had an erection and half a brain. It’s given him certain concerns about the individual that make up that particular deodorant corporation.

He hears the angel snicker behind him.

Luke turns, look scandalized. “Are you… reading my mind?!”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t.” Luke says firmly, pointing the gun for emphasis, albeit completely hollow emphasis. “Alright? Just, don't.”

“Fine, fine.” The angel holds up both hands casually. “Not my fault you think like a fucking loudspeaker.”

Luke turns back to the tunnel, moving quietly forward. It’s all old stone, barely lit by a few emergency bulbs along the walls, sparse and so dim they hardly help at all. It's damp, cold, dirt floors cushioning the noise of his boots. He checks each corner, moving on towards the warmth deeper in the tunnels. There’s quite a few tunnels, open paths, split ways. Too many to keep track of. Risky.

“You know,” Luke says suddenly, “I’m still not totally convinced you aren’t a hallucination.”

“A hallucinations that saves your life?” the angel asks.

“Still not convinced that wasn’t a hallucination.”

“Right, because…?”

“Angels aren’t real.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because, the idea of there being someone, something watching my life, silently, constantly, and never doing a single fucking thing to alter it's course,” Luke focuses on the path ahead, hands tightening on his gun, “well, maybe I’m not cynical enough to acknowledge that possibility.”

There’s a soft noise behind him, like a trapped bird. Luke turns. The angel's gone.

 

“Boring.”

“Be quiet,” Castiel hisses over his shoulder.

The angel follows casually behind him, eyeing the close dark tunnels with disinterest. Castiel tries to focus on the twists and turns in the passageways. It’s getting warmer the deeper they head in, heavy with the smell of copper and raw meat.

He should be focusing more than he is. There were some noises behind them a few minute ago that he should probably be worried about, but he’s having a hard time focusing when there's something that likley has the compressed power of a few nuclear reactors following him in a pair of Timberlands.

“Seriously, when do we get to the good stuff? ‘Vampire hunt’ sounded pretty sweet but playing _Third Man_ down here, not so much.”

“Why are you here?” Castiel asks suddenly, turning to face him.

The angel shrugs, green eyes bright against the gloom of the tunnel and smile even brighter. “What? Not having a good time?”

“I thought you were looking for Michael,” Castiel says, “looking for Michael at the end of the world… Seems important.”

“It is,” the angel says firmly.

“So, why are you here?”

“Well, I found you first, so maybe that’s something,”

Castiel turns back to the tunnels. “I’m not Michael.”

“Sure, whatever,” the angel shrugs.

Castiel turns back, fast and firm. Suddenly his knife is in his hand and he’s pointing it right at him. “No. I’m not Michael. And that’s something that needs to be very clear.”

“Crystal.” The angel looks down at the knife, unimpressed. “Jesus, and I thought my family had issues.”

Castiel turns back to the path. Maybe he should change the subject. “Do you have a name?”

He can hear the angel slip his hands into his pockets casually behind him. “Sure.”

“Sure?”

“Well, my real name’s hard to pronounce. For you. And you know, anything that isn't an exploding star.”

“Do you have - I don’t know - some translation?”

The angel’s quiet for a moment. “Dean.”

Castiel can’t help turning. “…Dean?”

The angel frowns. “Yeah, what's wrong with Dean?”

“Nothing just, not really the most ‘angelic’ of names.”

The angel snorts. “Yeah and Castiel's real normal. Sounds like a fucking burn ointment.”

Castiel ignores him, turning back to the tunnels. They seem to be getting tighter which isn’t right, they should be getting wider as they get close to the living area.

“We should have found something by now. Maybe we should turn back,” Castiel mutters. “I think you woke them up with the door. They could be looping around, surrounding us.”

“Yeah, that should be hard in this fucking labyrinth.”

Castiel’s already frayed nerves spark. He turns sharply. “Alright, you know what—“

The angel’s face goes suddenly dark. His hand snaps to the air left of Castiel’s head so quickly he doesn’t see it move. Brightness suddenly floods the tunnel and a gurgled scream burns away into nothing. Castiel falls against the stonewall out of the way, shielding his eyes frantically. When the brightness finally fades he pulls his arm back.

There’s a vampire on the ground, burned out, just like the night before. Only one. There must be more.

Something skitters behind them.

Castiel turns, blinking hard and snatching his machete from under his jacket swinging at the flashing teeth in the dark. He misses. There’s sharp dirty laughter. He kicks. The body hits the wall and he swings again, getting a wet noise and a dull thud in return this time.

Sharp fingers dig into his shoulder, grabbing him, turning him. He spins, a sharp circle, the blade at the right height. There’s a sound like someone trying to empty juice-box, then another thunk as a head hits the dirt floor.

“You missed,” the cocky voice grins behind him.

“Once,” Castiel insists. For some reason. “It’s your fault anyways, my eyes are poor enough in the dark without being blinded by you first.”

Quick skittering steps sound to his left.

Castiel's hand closes around a syringe. He jams it into the first flesh he hits, emptying to the sound of a dry scream as the body under his touch crumbles to the ground.

A hand snatches violently in his hair, tight, white pain, dragging his head back. There's hot air on his neck, the stink of breathe. Light explodes around them, bright and infinite. Cas slams his eyes shut, feeling the impossible heat against his cheek. There's a the smell of toast and melted metal and then it’s dark again. He’s pretty sure all the stubble on that side of his face is gone.

The vampire's body slumps and falls to the ground.

“Do you have to do that ever time?” Castiel yells, turning on him. "There's other ways you can kill them!"

“There’s more,” the angel says, apparently not caring what he has to say him. It’s a little terrifying how quickly that face goes from something soft and pompous to the hard set stone that’s looking back at him now.

“Where?” Castiel asks, swallowing sharply.

“Back the way we came.”

 

The only warning he gets is the short slide of a footstep. Luke turns instantly, the sharp burst of gunfire illuminating the fanged face for half a second before the bullet crashes through it’s skull. His ears are ring too loudly after for the sound of the body hitting the ground to make it through. It doesn’t matter, he knows it's dead, but they're more coming now.

There’s a shift, just to his left. Two of them, leaping, arms outstretched, jaws open. Luke takes one step back. Breathe in, aim. Breathe out, squeeze.

They crash out of the air, knocked off their trajectory by the violence of the shots, skidding into a messy pile at his feet.

Luke turns just in time. He catches the arm headed for his face. The dark haired thing that was once a woman snarls back at him, teeth sharp, eyes bright. Her clawed fist slashes out. His gun’s out of his hand before he can catch it. Her strength pushes, his arm buckles--

An arm is reaching over his shoulder. A hand shoves onto the vampire’s face.

Luke barely manages to close his eyes in time.

When he open them again there’s nothing but a smoking corpse staring back at him. The hand over his shoulder pulls back from the vampire's forehead. The body crumples instantly to the ground.

Luke turns. “Do I still have eyebrows?”

The angel can’t seem to help smiling, a few long bangs sweeping across his face. “Barely. But that’s not unusual.”

Luke feels himself start to smile. He turns away before it gets away from him, because, no, definitely not. “Are there more?”

“Five. They’re coming. Now.”

“Good.” Luke runs his hand along the floor feelings for his gun, it's slid further than he thought. He the ringing in his ears is gone. It certainly shouldn’t be. Not this soon.

A shuffle sounds behind them. Instantly, Luke’s upright, back straight, arm extended, gun aimed. The firing flash snaps a still moment, a frozen fleeting image in the closeness of the tunnels. Straight through the mouth. One down. There’s more coming fast. Two more judging by the noise. Six shots left. Lucky today apparently.

These are faster. The first slices for his face with a jagged scream, just as the second turns the corner. Luke dodges the swing - barely -  emptying a shot into the first’s skull as he does. The second’s on him just as fast, dragging him back, breath hot and putrid, nails deep in the meat of his shoulder. He grits his teeth, slamming his head back into the thing’s skull with a grunt. It staggers. He spins. His fist connects just as blinding light fills the space around them.

The vampire's held against the wall screams as the less fortunate one a few feet away burns into silence. Luke punches his again, getting a good enough hit to push it back half a foot. His knife is in his hand in half a second. He catches it’s face in his hand, shoves it back against the wall. He swings. There’s the feel of flesh, and bone, and finally the stone wall behind. The head hits the ground with a dull thunk.

He turns with a smile on his lips, breath fast. He wipes a spray of blood off his cheek. The angel’s too: small, soft.

A shape rises in the dark, silent, still - a shape directly behind the angel's broad shoulder. Something catches the light. A blade. Swinging.

“SAM!” Luke yells.

The angel starts to turn. It’s too late. The machete was too fast.

“Hey, hey!” an alien voice calls out. “Not cool, man, not cool!”

Luke's stares in shock at the blade shining out of the flanneled chest in front of him. Sam doesn’t move; he doesn’t fall.

Luke raises his gun instantly, pointing fast at the dark figure who'd swung.

“… Luke?” a voice asks.

Luke freezes. The darkened figure steps closer and details emerge from the shadows: trench coat, messy dark hair, blue eyes, eyes that somehow seem equal parts despair and hope.

Luke stares. “… Castiel?”

There’s someone beside him, another figure who’s wandering out of the darkness with a sigh.

A wet noise sounds and Luke suddenly turns. Sam is reaching behind his back as if he's merely got an itch that needs attention. He tugs the machete free. The angel sighs, shaking his shoulders slightly. The wound seals shut, closing with no more than a hazy blue glow.

“Jesus…” Luke stares.

“Not quite,” the stranger grins, stepping up behind Sam and putting a hand on his shoulder. “All good, Sammy?”

Sam rolls his eyes like it’s the stupidest question he’s ever had to suffer. And suddenly that’s all too recognizable.

“You’re brothers.” Luke says instantly.

Sam looks up. “What? Oh, yeah.”

The other angel frowns in his direction. “This is the guy? Seriously? Looks like a bit of a dick-bag.”

Luke stares. “Excuse me?”

Castiel is still looking at him. He can’t seem to stop. “What’s going on?”

“Reunion!” the other angel grins, “oh, and: you’re welcome,”

No one’s saying thank you. Castiel’s still gazing, apparently as incapable of believing what he’s seeing as Luke is. But it really is Castiel. He’s grown up. He’s not some ten year old too shy to speak hiding behind a minister’s skirts. He’s standing right here. In a vampire nest. With a machete. And an angel.

Luke clears his throat. He nods his head in Sam’s direction. “Can you see him?” he asks Castiel.

Castiel’s brows furrow and then follows his indication, looking at Sam. Slowly he nods.

Well, at least there’s that.


	3. Waffles and Revelations

Luke hurries towards his truck, one child held up against his hip, another's tiny hand in his own. Castiel is two steps behind him, carrying the one they'd found unconscious with both arms. If Luke had to guess the girl was six years old maybe, or seven.

The hand in his tightens, small fingers gritty with filth pressing close. The children don't speak, they simply follow them, eyes squinting against the sunlight. He can hear steps even further back, the two other sets of human shaped feet following behind, but he doesn't look. It's easier if he pretends there aren't angels stalking them, helping the kids out of the nest along side like they're simply other hunters lending a helping hand, or four.

There had been six kids in the nest. Three have the marks, but none of them had been turned. Lucky. It wasn't unusual, vamps carrying around virgin stock with them. If they kept them long enough they went docile and simple as any livestock. Six wasn't too bad. The worst nest he'd ever rustled had nearly thirty thin-faced children as young as these, sealed in some steely room away from the sun and the sky, breathing only the scent of blood and the weight of mildew laden air.

As soon as they reach his truck Luke pops the bed open and Castiel lays down the girl on the corrugated plastic.  
Castiel gently swipes a dirty strand of auburn hair out of her small face. Luke frowns. Maybe he hasn't changed so much after all.

"Is she dead?" A small, dry voice at his side asks.

"No," Castiel says simply. "I have first aid in my van."

Luke can't help it. "Your van?"

"It's parked further east. I'll get the supplies."  
"Wait," one of the angels pushes his way forward. It isn't Sam. The other one, with the stripper lips and bitter-sweet smile.

He reaches out a hand towards the girl. Castiel catches it. "Wait."

"Problem?" The angel asks, eyes hardening.

Castiel's gaze falters, as if he's looking for an excuse to object but can't seem to find one.

"Just let him," Luke says firmly. "Her pulse is too weak to wait."

Castiel's grip loosens. The angel easily shakes him off, muttering something that sounds like "fucking first aid kit". He grazes two fingers against the girl's forehead. She doesn't open her eyes, but a new color sinks into her cheeks and her skin suddenly seems less translucent in the bright winter sun. Luke presses his own fingers against her neck. The pulse is there. Steady. Strong.

"Thank you," the small voice at Luke's hip says.

The angel grins. "Don't sweat it, kid."

Sam steps closer. "We can take care of the rest of them."

"Hold on," Luke says, hand subconsciously holding the small one in it tighter. "They're doing alright as is."

The green-eyed angel scoffs, glancing at the child in Sam's arms. "That one's got ring worm. And fleas. And MS. Although, that last one shouldn't be too much of a bitch for another 3,546 days--"

"Alright," Luke cuts him off. "We get it."

"The hospital," Castiel says suddenly.

"What?" Sam asks.

"There's a hospital," Castiel continues, "just in town. You should take them there instead."

The other angel shrugs. "Would only take half a minute to just wipe these slates clean and zap them back for Saturday morning cartoons." He moves his hand towards the girl again.

Luke catches it this time, likely a bit harder than Castiel, because the angel's eyes instantly flash sharp and dangerous. But Luke holds the gaze easily. "No."

"It's fine," Sam says quickly, putting a hand on the other's shoulder and pulling him back a step. "Fine, yeah? The hospital's good. We'll drop them off and tell the authorities where to find their parents."

"That takes time," the other angel says turning on Sam. His jaw's tight under his skin... if it even is skin that is. "Incase you forget we're on a bit of a countdown here."

"Ah, right," Luke rolls his eyes. "End of the world."

"Fucking A right,” the angel says firmly. "Rain of fire. Horsemen on parade. The doom of the In-And-Out Burger. End of the world. So we don't really have time to waste on this bullshit babysitting gig. Alright?"

Castiel glares. "That's inappropriate language for this company."

The angel chokes out a laugh before lolling his head dramatically backwards and groaning something inaudible.

"We'll go to the hospital," Sam says firmly. "It won't take long."

He reaches out a hand before Luke can catch it. He touches the girl, nudges an elbow against the boy at Luke's hip, and suddenly, it's just Luke and Castiel, alone in the forest.

"Fuck," Luke swears, slamming a hand against the truck.

Castiel's frowning sternly. "We should have assumed that's what they meant to do."

"Why?" Luke asks. "Because they're just assholes like that?"

"It seems to be their main means of mobility."

Luke looks at him again. It really is him. He still can't completely believe it.

"What?" Castiel asks. Luke realizes he's been staring. But he can't seem to stop.

"You grew up," he says.

Castiel's face darkens. "That's not anything notable."

"No," Luke mutters. "I suppose not."

Overhead a crow cries raspy and low against the cold of the air. Castiel's hands are in his pockets, the guns and knives back under his coat. There's a few smudges on the beige fabric where the girl's feet scuffed him. In the cold air his breathe catches white and steady before his face. He never did grow into those lips, but it almost suits him now.

"Did you hear something, when they left?" Castiel beings awkwardly, pushing his hands into his pockets. "Something... feathery?"

"Yeah. I did." Luke clears his throat. "I mean, I have been, in general, when they do that."

"Wings," Castiel tries helpfully, "I would guess."

"Probably a safe bet," Luke affirms.

There's another Awkward Pause.

"You said you drove a van?" Luke begins again. He's suddenly afraid if he doesn't keep talking Castiel will leave. And he doesn't know why, but he suddenly can't bear the idea of not looking at him, hearing him, for at least a few minutes more.

“Mini-van," Castiel answers.

Luke actually laughs aloud, and just manages to swallow it when Castiel doesn't.

"This is yours?" Castiel asks, eyeing the vehicle behind them.

"No, just another hunter truck up in the woods."

Castiel eyes him levelly. "You're sarcastic. I remember that."

Luke manages half a smile.

"Do you think they'll come back?" Castiel asks. His ears are red against the cold. He should really have a hat.

"I'm sure they will,” Luke answers. "But we don't have to be here when they get here.”

Castiel looks at him questioningly.

Luke swallows. This is harder than it has any right to be. "Want to get breakfast. Catch up?"

"Catch up?" Castiel repeats blankly.

"You know, that thing brothers are supposed do when they haven't seen one another 'in forever'."

"Shoot first?"

Luke stares.

"That was a joke," Castiel says helpfully.

"Yeah. I got that," Luke says sternly. "It's funny."

"I'm sorry," Castiel shakes his head. "I would like that. Catching up. I mean. It has been 'forever'."

Luke tries to convince his lips not to break into a smile. He settles for nodding at his feet stoically instead. "Breakfast? Meet you at that diner right before the highway?"

He thinks Castiel might be looking at the ground as well. "I'll meet you there."

When Luke glances up again he's already headed east through the trees, trench coat wafting out behind him. Luke lets himself smile before tugging the truck door open with a metal squeak and throwing himself up into the worn leather seats. The engine turns over easier than it has for months. He decides it's better to simply blame the weather and let it slide by without further scrutiny.

 

It's warm in the diner, almost steamy compared to the sharp thin cold just outside the glass. It smells of fried potatoes, old grease, and worn denim. The seats under them are just a little too slippery to get comfortable against. Castiel lifts his coffee, watching as Luke pops his thumb through the top of a creamer and easily empties it into his own.  
He squints at the figure across from him. He's not sure wether he's what he expected or not. There's certainly the look of some rough-hewn heroism to him. Although, that might just be alcoholism.

There's no avoiding the look of war on him. It hangs everywhere, weighing everything down with more grit than mere cynicism can provide. Castiel's come to learn that look over the years, after all almost every hunters has it. It's the look of haunted things that haven't had the curtsey to die just yet, the look of people plagued by the practice of pushing aside memories. Memories were poison for most hunters, even the sweet ones. Especially the sweet ones. But Luke seemed... different. More. He had the look of war, but it was almost as if he'd stopped running from the memories, as if he'd been haunted so long he'd accepted them for exactly what they were and simply let the ghosts ride along with him for better or worse.

It's been a long time since he's imagined this moment. When he was little he used to imagine it often. He and Gabriel would sit up in the cloisters, tossing back and forth stories of what their mysterious brother did out in the world while they lit candles, and swept priory floors, and stole crackers from under the altar. Sometimes they imagined he was a spy, other times an astronaut, occasionally a veterinarian. Castiel had imagined it all, in as many shapes and colors as he could. He imagined it each night before he went to bed, tucked up tight in the minister's back room, with the night-light glowing softly against the wall and Gabriel's breath tempting at snores in the corner. 

He'd seen it all quite clearly back then: he'd come for both of them, one day, when they were old enough, if they'd been very good. Father Joseph told them not to think about things like that, told them that the church was their home now. He'd told them families are what we make, not what we're made from. But Castiel had dreamed all the same. Their brother, their hero. He'd come and take both of them by the hand, and drive them all away into a life together. Some nights Castiel imagined the adventures they'd have, but mostly it was the simple things that had always seemed far more thrilling to him: their brother, dropping them off a school, their brother, taking them to a movie they're too young for, their brother, sitting in the stands off the side of a baseball diamond in jeans and a t-shirt laughing with the other parents.

He hasn't thought about those things for a long time. And now, sitting here, across from this man, it's hard to remember if the image he'd formed back then still fit remotely. After those dreams faded there was only silence for years in their place, and then stories, stories of a hunter with the same name and a reputation the size of a small country.

"What can I get you, honey?"

Castiel looks up. Luke is looking back at him, all cold blue eyes and expectance. Castiel glances at the waitress. She's waiting with a hand on her hip and an old pen stain on her pocket.

He fumbles his menu. "Um, a burger. Please."

The waitress frowns. "It's just past ten, hun. We're still on breakfast."

"Oh," he frowns. "Waffles?"

"Got it." She slips away as quickly as she appeared.

And then it's just them. Again.

"Well," Luke says.

"Well," Castiel agrees lamely.

Luke's staring at him. He keeps doing it. Castiel shouldn't be surprised, he probably remembers him well enough to make proper comparisons to past images.

"So, you're a hunter," Luke says. He doesn't look happy. He doesn't look proud.

"Yes," Castiel answers.

"When did that happen?"

"Fourteen years ago."

He seems surprised. "Really?"

"Yes."

"But you're what..." there's a shockingly brief pause, "you're twenty-nine this past October."

Castiel swallows. "Yes."

"So you were..." Luke's look is darkening quickly, "fifteen?"

"Yes." He should have known this would come up. He shouldn't be surprised. He also shouldn't feel a tight anger starting to smolder in the back of his chest.

Luke's face takes on a whole new shape when it's angry. Some of the stories begin to make sense. "Joseph-- Minister Grey, was supposed to stop that from happening. He was supposed to take care of you."

"He did," Castiel says, trying to keep his voice steady, calm.

"Apparently not," Luke snaps. "He broke a promise to me. I should remind him of that."

"You can't," Castiel says. "He's dead."

Luke almost looks disappointed. Almost. "Ah."

Castiel says nothing.

"When?" Luke tries.

"Fourteen years ago."

Luke nods as if he should have guessed that answer. "Right."

It's quiet for a moment. Behind them the bell on the door rings. Someone asks for a refill in a heavy northern accent. Steely spatulas scrap against worn iron in the sizzling steam of the kitchen.

"Gabriel?" Luke asks. He isn't looking at Castiel. He's stirring his coffee with more focus than is likely necessary.

"I don't know," Castiel says.

"Is he a hunter?" Luke grumbles.

"No," Castiel answers. "Wherever he is, whatever he's doing, he's certainly not a hunter."

Luke leans back. "Well, at least there's that."

Castiel sees something drag under his shirt, it looks like a token or something similar looped around his neck and hung against his chest.

"What's that?" He asks, squinting at it.

Luke follows his gaze down. "Oh. Just precautions."

"So," Castiel starts tentatively, "it's true?"

"What's that?" Luke says with practiced ignorance. Castiel suddenly has the impression of some celebrity being approached on the street and only barely feigning their normalcy.

"Hell," Castiel says, "it's true?"

Luke shrugs. "What did you hear?"

There's that attitude again. The image gets crisper: “Oh, what movie was it you saw me in? That's right, that little thing. How funny you saw it. Hardly anyone did." Had he always been this arrogant?

"You went. To hell. And then you left," Castiel clarifies.

"Yeah, that about sums it up. But, seriously," he leans forward against the table, "you're a hunter? I've never heard of you before. Never heard of anyone who's heard of you. That's unusual."

"I don't want people to hear of me," Castiel says.

Luke raises an eyebrow. "Why's that?"

"Not being known makes it easier to work alone. Working alone makes it easier not to hurt anyone else. I'm not sure any of us should be known for what we do. I think the world is better off ignorant of what we protect them from."  
Luke shrugs. "I suppose. I'm just surprised you've managed it. The hunter world isn't a big one."

"Well..." Castiel begins. "I do provide some more... public services."

"Really? Like what?"

His hands tap against his knees under the table nervously. This is probably a terrible idea. But something about his attitude is making him want to share something at least. "Do you know Monsters and Mythicals?"

Luke's eyes widen. "The fucking Wiki?!"

"Warm up that coffee?" The waitress asks, materializing by the table.

"Please," Luke just manages. She pours quickly.

"Thank you," Castiel mutters and she's gone again.

Luke's still staring. "Seriously? M&M. The hunter wiki disguised as a D&D modification? That's you?"

He'd suspected it wasn't a good idea. "Yes. That's me."

Luke laughs, leaning back and slinging an arm over the back of the booth with a disbelieving shake of his head. "Fuck me."

"It's very useful," Castiel says, trying not to sound too defensive. "It allows for the community to make use of every else's experience. It's a valuable resource."

Luke huffs. "Maybe for anyone who doesn't know what they're doing. And the grammatically impaired."

Castiel's look darkens. Luke notices.

"Hey, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. I'm sure you're a good hunter. It is... valuable. It's just-- have you seen my page on there?"

Castiel can't help smiling. "You've looked yourself up?"

Luke shrugs. "Maybe once."

"You know I don't control the content," Castiel feels the need to add.

"But, you could."

"But, I don't."

Luke runs a hand through his hair roughly. "Well, you can at least delete that nonsense about me having some sort of curse from a scorned demon queen. That simply isn't true."

Castiel glances at Luke's chest again and the slight rise in his shirt from whatever is hiding underneath. "What did you say that was again?"

Luke meets his eyes steadily. "Precautions."

Castiel takes a sip of his coffee. "Is anything else inaccurate on the page?"

"Not notably so."

"So, it's true? About you and Michael?"

Luke focuses on the way the light catches his spoon as he turns it from side to side. "I don't recall what it says exactly, so I couldn't tell you. I haven't seen him since I was sixteen."

"I haven't see him. Ever," Castiel adds.

"That's not a coincidence," Luke says sternly.

Castiel nods. A million more questions are dancing on his tongue: why, how, when, but none of them can seem to summon the strength to leap free.

"It's good to see you," Luke says after a moment. "You turned out alright in the end it seems. I'm glad we ran into each other."

Castiel can't make himself return the sentiment. He changes the subject. "Do you know that angel? The one who was with you?"

"No," Luke frowns. "I don't."

"You know his name."

"So do you. Yours I mean. The one with the Brady Bunch freckles."

Castiel puts his coffee neatly down on the table. "You look at him as if you know him. You seemed concerned, when you thought I was about to--"

"I don't know him. Alright?"

"Apologies," Castiel begins again, "I thought, maybe in hell..."

"There weren't any angels in hell," Luke says sternly.

"No," Castiel gazes down at the darkness of his coffee. "No, I supposed there wouldn't be."  
There go the questions again, flitting behind his eyes quick and violent. He swallows them back with the rest.

"When did you meet yours?" Luke asks.

"Last night. Something... strange happened."

"Same here," Luke says. "Do you know those words?" He looks him firmly in the eyes and Castiel's almost struck with the strength lurking there. He'd heard rumors of course, that he was clever, and one of the best hunters alive, that he could convince people of almost anything, and win loyalty as easily as buying a drink. It had seemed mythic, sensational. But, looking at him now, suddenly it all seems easy to believe.

"Yes," Castiel answers. "I know those words."

Luke shakes his head. "It seems like every high-horse hydra screams apocalypse when you've got them pinned in a corner with a bronze sword at their throat. There's more than enough creepy-crawlies crying wolf to give it implausibility."

Castiel focuses on him. "But you saw what happened last night. It wasn't... I've never seen anything like that. Have you?"

Luke doesn't answer him.

The waitress suddenly appears next to them again and eases the steaming plates down. Castiel watches his own slide into place with a small frown. Waffles never do look quite as exciting as their pictures in the menu.

Luke snatches up a piece of bacon from his own plate, crunching on it idly. There's a distance to his expression. Castiel doesn't know him, how could he, but despite his casual demeanor, he seems concerned, or at the very least preoccupied.

Two tables down someone's talking about missing children and a hospital. There's a cliche thrown in there as well, and a prayer to top it off.

"There's something else," Castiel says finally.

Luke focuses again.

"He didn't mean to find me... I mean, he made a mistake. The angel."

Luke lets out a short laugh. "Perfect."

"It was... he was looking for Michael."

Luke's jaw is tight under his stubble, but his body remains loose, for all outward purposes calm and collected. "I see."

"Which means, they were looking for you. And Michael. Last night. With those words, and those things, coming to life again like they did."

Luke reaches for his fork, heaping on a fair share of scrambled eggs.

Castiel can feel the anger tempting at his chest again. "I heard that your father, that our father once tried--"

"Hey, boys?"

Luke looks up. Castiel's words fall away from him. The waitress is back.

"I don't want to go rattling coops, but there's some fellas lurking around your cars out front there. They look too pretty to get up to much trouble, but just so's your keepin' an eye out."

And sure enough there are two 'fellas' lingering around the parking lot beside the truck and the mini-van. The taller one has his hands in his pockets, talking calmly, with all the appearance of someone trying to calm a situation. 'Dean' is pacing with an irritated look, kicking an empty beer can back and forth between his booted feet.

Luke lets out a sigh. "Yes, we see them. Thank you."

She's gone as quickly as she arrived.

"You don't happen to know what kills them do you?" Luke mutters into his eggs, scooping a few more up.

Castiel shakes his head. "Just rumors. But I doubt it's easy."

Luke shrugs. "Never hurts to try."

"We should talk to them," Castiel says.

Luke snorts. "Be my guest."

"If we don't, they'll just keep following us."

Luke leans back, exhaling and licking his lips once. "I wonder if they make angelic restraining orders. Who do we call about that?"

Castiel shrugs. "God?"

"Probably an expensive call. Bet the hold line's torture."

"It seems likely."

It doesn't take them long to finish breakfast. By the time they're heading out the door the day has warmed up, if only by five degrees or so. At least now it's likely above zero.

Luke seems to tense more with each step towards the waiting angels, but Castiel can't say he isn't doing the same. There's a sense of power lurking around them, like thunder hiding in just the right folds of ominous summer clouds.

Dean's leaned against the hood of his van, flicking at the antenna. The other one - Sam? is that what he'd said? - is standing straight, hands in his coat pockets, watching them approach.

"The kids are fine. They've contacted most of their parents already," Sam says.

Luke nods but says nothing.

"Yeah, and you're welcome," Dean huffs. "Now, can we get back to the actual important shit here."

"I'm sorry," Luke begins, narrowing his eyes. "You might have been misinformed on exactly what it is we do. This is pretty much the job description. So, if what you have to say is vastly different from this subject, it's likely not in our ballpark."

Dean opens his mouth angrily to snap but Sam puts a hand on his shoulder. "It's in the ballpark. Just a larger one than usual."

"Right," Luke snorts, leaning back against the truck. "End of the world."

"You don't seem all that stressed,” Dean notes.

"Could be because I'm not," Luke answers simply.

"What's happening?" Castiel asks, stepping forward. "What was that last night?"

"Last night was the first step in a series that leads to the end of the world as you've known it," Sam says, taking a moment to glare in Luke's direction. "And when I say 'end', please give us at least the curtsy to recognize that we aren't a set of stoned witches cackling in a back room and throwing newt heads into a pot. When we say 'end', we mean it."

"How?" Castiel says. "How is it happening? What's doing it?"

Dean snorts. "Why don't you ask McLain there?"

Luke mouthes "McLain" against his truck.

"Do you know?" Castiel asks, turning on him. "Do you know what all of this is?"

Luke shrugs. "Not a clue. Like I said, nothing I'm terribly concerned about."

"So," Dean takes a step closer. "If I told you: The Lamb of God has opened the first seal, that wouldn't be 'of concern' to you?"

Suddenly, Luke goes very still.

"Dean," Sam cautions gently.

"What?! This is what we came for isn't it? No point dancing around it."

"What does that mean?" Castiel asks. "The lamb of god? The seals? Is that what it sounds like?"

Luke isn't looking at him, he's glaring at the ground with tightly constrained anger. "That's not possible. I made sure that wasn't possible."

"Well, la-de-fucking-da," Dean says.

"I know you tried to stop it," Sam counters. "But something went wrong. It's started, despite everything, and now we have to stop it before it's too late."

"What's started?" Castiel asks firmly. "What's happened?"

"Someone is opening the seven seals," Dean answers. "And when the last is open, well, let's just say vampire walking-dead won't be your biggest problem."

"Michael?" Luke says, looking directly at Sam.

The angel nods. "We believe it's him."

"Believe? You don't know?" Luke reproaches.

"We're pretty damn fucking certain," Dean comes back.

"But you don't know," Luke continues.

"Luke--" Sam starts, kind eyes concerned and wary.

"Why?" Castiel asks, interrupting the useless back and forth. "I don't understand, why would Michael want to start the end of the world?"

"Some people don't see it as the end," Sam says. "Some people see it as--"

"Revelation," Luke finishes.

"The final judgement?" Castiel says. "Good souls moving on to heaven and poor ones doomed to hell? But, that would empty the earth."

"Naughty list heads downstairs, nice list upstairs," Dean adds. "But given the current state of reality television and some fairly constrictive biblical guidelines, it's likely heaven won't be throwing too many welcome parties."

"But why? Why would he, why would anyone--"

"Because he's a dick," Dean says flatly. "And your dad was an even bigger one."

Luke glares at the angel with sudden venom. "Michael's only doing what he's been told to, what he thinks is 'right'. He's never understood this clearly."

"We know," Sam says. "That's why we're here."

Luke glances up at him, pale blue eyes tinted angry. "Why?"

"Because," the angel says, focused, intent, "we think you're the only one left who can stop him."

Luke laughs, loud and sharp against the thin, bitter cold. "You're not serious?"

"Nah." Dean glares. "We just thought it would be a fun day trip, you know: pop down to MortalLand, scare the shit out of you two, whack a few vamps, enjoy the sights of some glorious rural Maine healthcare facilities."

"What do you mean 'stop him'?" Castiel frowns, ignoring Dean. "Do you mean kill him?"

"No," Sam says instantly.

Dean gives him a look.

"Hopefully not," Sam corrects, glancing at the ground.

Luke glares. "So, let me get this straight, you've come down here, on some heavenly quest, to stop the end of the world. And the best idea you've got is to get Michael and I in the same room together to talk it out? Well, that's a whole new breed of ignorance."

"Maybe it's faith," Sam tries.

Luke scoffs. "Faith in what?"

"Family," Sam answers.

Luke looks at him sternly. "You do realize that the fact I live in this world is likely sixty-percent of the reason he feels so inclined to bring it all shattering down?"

"We know you've had your problems, but you're the only person he has left. If there's anyone who can convince him to stop this..."

"Why are you even talking to me?" Luke suddenly begins. "Why not simply find him?"

"I'm not sure we'd be as convincing as you would be," Sam starts.

"They can't find him," Castiel says.

"What?" Luke turns.

"They can't find Michael, remember. They tried." He looks at Dean. "You tried, but you failed, and only found me instead. You can't find him, and you're hoping we will be able to."

"Hey now!" Dean protests. "Fail's a strong word."

Luke shakes his head, laughing into the neck of his jacket.

"It's not that we're clueless," Sam begins again, "we know about the seals, we have a good idea where they might be and where he would have to go in order to open them."

"But you don't know where he is?" Luke presses.

Sam's forehead furrows. "No. We don't."

"How do we know you don't just want us to help you long enough for you to find him and kill him?" Castiel asks.

"Would that be so terrible?" Dean shrugs. "He's going to blow up the fucking world."

"No," Sam breaks in firmly. "I'm sure, if we get there, if you can speak to him, there's a chance we can stop all of this without needing to take such measures."

Luke's not looking at any of them, he's gazing off into the forest beyond, face distracted and furrowed.

"It's like you said," Sam continues, "he only thinks he's doing the right thing. All we have to do is show him that he isn't."

"You said the first seal was broken, last night," Castiel says. "Was it near here? Was he near here?"

"No," Dean says. "The seal was in Manhattan, down in some ancient sewage lines."

"Then why did the vampires--?" Castiel starts.

"The first four seals belong to the four horsemen: pestilence, war, famine, and death," Sam says. "Heaven suspects that the seal is always located in the greatest concentration of the beasts that each horseman it's closest tied to. And when a seal is broken, all of those beasts rise again to the voice of their master, waiting for the final call to battle."

"And last night..."

"Pestilence: vampires," Dean finishes.

"Hold on," Luke breaks in suddenly. "So, every vampire that's ever died in Manhattan is now wandering the streets like those things we saw last night?"

"Did you think we were fucking around with all this?" Dean says. "Big apple vamps are only the tip of the iceberg."

"If the first is broken, you're planning to find Michael at the second," Castiel says, "hoping to stop that one from being opened as well. Do you know where it is? How to find it?"

"We have a pretty good idea," Sam says. "The rest will have to come together once we're there."

"Where?" Castiel asks.

"Second is war," Dean says. "That's a pretty solid bet on berserker territory. So--"

"North Dakota," Luke finishes for him. He's still staring off into the trees. Castiel hadn't been sure before he spoke if he'd even been listening.

"When?" Castiel asks.

"We're guessing as soon as he can get there, which driving looks like about two days, as long as he hasn't grown wings," Dean says.

"Which means we should leave as soon as possible," Castiel says.

"That would be best," Sam says. "If we want to catch him in time."

Luke turns around, pulling his keys out of his pocket and heading towards his truck.

"Hold up, let's maybe talk plan before we go rushing off--"

"No," Luke says flatly.

Dean turns. "Excuse me."

"No." He repeats simply. "I'm going back to the motel. I'm packing my things. And I am leaving. I am not going to North Dakota. I am not speaking to Michael."

He opens the door to the truck and turns back to face them. He looks right back at Castiel before looking at the angels.

"And, if you take Castiel with you, I will kill you." His face doesn't flinch. "If you contact him or me, ever again, I will kill you. I don't know how. Not yet. But trust me that I will know. Soon. My face has been the last thing a number of fuckers far more terrifying that you two have ever seen. So, for your own good: fuck off, and go find some saints to play with."

And with that he turns away, slamming the truck door against the cold behind him.


	4. Road Trip

It doesn't take Luke long to compress whatever was left back at the motel into a duffel. He does a final sweep of the space, there's a few hex-bags he doesn't want to leave behind hidden incorners, toothpaste, the shotgun hidden behind the door, the usual necessities. He gets all the odd corners into the canvas just right and pulls the zipper shut with a clean noise. He's just reaching for the buckles to cross over top when there's a knock at the door.

Luke stills. He's really not sure if angels knock or not. They certainly don't have to, and it seems that sudden cardiac-arresting appearances are preferred to common courtesy. Then again, maybe they're trying to walk some precarious middle ground of decency.

The knocking gets louder. One steady beat after another.

With a grumble Luke stands, hand easily slipping around the gun on his hip. He cracks his knuckles once, leaning to get a look out the peep-hole.

Deep blue eyes glare back at him, breathe from flared nostrils fogging in the freezing air.

Luke leans back, hand loosening on the gun. He considers for a moment before unlocking and pulling the door open in one motion.

Castiel's anger is pouring off of him. Luke's surprised he can't feel it, like a heater pushing out burning air.

Luke looks back. "... Problem?"

"I am not a child," Castiel says sternly.

"You don't really need to remind people with a voice like that," Luke notes, "that and the big-boy stubble."

Castiel shoves past him roughly into the motel room and out of the cold. "Shut up."

Luke almost laughs. "Excuse me?"

"You're treating me like a child, when you're the one who's acting like one."

Luke can't help smiling. He crosses his hands in front of his chest, leaning back against the door casually. "And how is that exactly?"

"Threatening angels?" Castiel spins on him. "Are you insane? Do you seriously think you could do anything to frighten them?"

"I do," Luke says seriously, "and I can. I don't make empty threats."

"It certainly sounded like one," Castiel threw back.

"They're welcome to try me," Luke shrugs.

"It doesn't matter," Castiel shakes his head, "that's not... What do you think gives you the right to dictate my life in any shape or form?"

Luke narrows his eyes. "I didn't realize I was dictating your life."

"Threatening them? Telling them to stay away from me? You don't have that right. Not anymore. Not that you ever did."

Luke ignores the last bit of that. "I have every right. You're my brother. I want you safe. Chasing Michael with two nuclear reactors in strap on wings is not _safe_.”

"Safe, right," Castiel says, burning blue eyes hard on his, "like it was safe for us before? With Minister Grey?"

Luke's face hardens. "That was the best place for the two of you to be. If something happened to him, to you, I am sorry but I did everything I could--"

"Not everything," Castiel says firmly. "Not everything."

Luke feels a sharp flame of anger lick at his chest. He keeps his arms tight. There are excuses, hundreds of them, even thousands, but he can't seem to bring any of them to his tongue.

Castiel glares back. "And here it is, starting all over again. You appear out of nowhere, like you always have. I didn't think I remembered you, but I do now. I remember that. You hit the ground like some bolt of lighting: blinding and impressive and more than a bit terrifying, and then you're gone, just like that, leaving everyone blinking out the brightness. Do you think that I'm still a child? That you can take me to a diner like some divorcee with weekend privileges he rarely makes use of? And then you think you have the privilege of laying down some greater judgement on my life?"

Luke wants to snap at him, tell him to watch how he speaks to someone like him. It's what he would do to anyone else, hell, he'd have already broken his nose if he was just someone. But he isn't. And to his own shock the words strike him harder than he'd known they could. He holds his arms close across his chest, one leg crossed casually over the other. He keeps his face utterly blank, and when he speaks his voice is calm as a snow-buried field.

"You can't expect me to see you, after all this time," Luke says, "and simply watch as you run into a fire."

"I don't care what you expect," Castiel says firmly, taking a strong step forward, lifting his stern chin. "You talk to me. You treat me with a modicum of respect. You don't simply throw threats over my head and vanish."

He'd forgotten how challenging family could be. He'd thought he'd missed it, and hell maybe he had, maybe he did, but you missed the beach too until you were still finding sand in your bed three days later.

"Fine," he bit, "I will talk to you: don't go with them."

Castiel let out a sound, half scoff, half laugh. "Are you only capable of speaking in direct orders?"

"It keeps things simple."

"For you," Castiel notes.

"Why would you even want to go with them?" Luke asks.

Castiel stares. "The world is going to end."

Luke gazes back. "... And?"

Castiel looks as if he's been slapped. "How... how can you even ask that?"

"Everything ends," Luke says simply. "Does it really make too much of a difference when and how?"

"Of course it makes a difference! It makes all the difference, especially if there is something that we can do to stop it."

"So, say we stop it, then what?" Luke continues. "We go back to slaying monsters one day at a time until some other big-bad decides it's time to pull down the curtain. And even if we manage to toss that one back into the pit, then what? We just wait around until the rest of the earth's concerned citizens drown in their own waste? It's going to end. Wether it's tomorrow or a century from now, so why stall the inevitable?"

Castiel stares back at him. "What happened to you?"

Luke feels the rage flare in the back of his chest again but he keeps it bottled. He can feel the smoothness of his fingers where hell burned away every line against the fold of his arm. "Maybe nothing happened to me, maybe this is just a better way to see things."

"I don't believe that," Castiel says firmly.

"Might want to start," Luke says. "If you heft the world up onto those shoulders it's going to crush you into the ground sooner or later. And it's a lot harder to walk with oceans knocking against your ears."

"It's not taking on the world. It's simply doing something when you can." The blue eyes stare back at him, dark and full of a hard, furious hope that's all too familiar.

Luke swallows. "Michael will kill you. You know that?"

"I can take care of myself."

"No," Luke says firmly. "Michael's the best hunter I have ever seen, and it's more than that. This is what he thinks _must_ be. You have no idea just how convincing our father could be. He placed a light in Michael that will burn away everything else, even you."

"You don't know that. He's my brother as well."

"There's a reason I hid you and Gabriel from him, Castiel. Blood is only so bright in the face of salvation."

Castiel's jaw is set, stare firm against his. He's so familiar in so many ways. It's been years, decades, since he saw any family, and now suddenly it's as if all of them are staring back at him: Michaels' hard jaw, his own sharp eyes, even a bit of Gabriel in the way he raises his chin when he speaks. And there was something else as well, something glimmering under the skin that gave his words an unexpected punch when uttered, something that he didn't want to recognize.

"We should go to New York," Luke tries. "The vamps must be roaming in hoards, if what they're telling us is true."

"Even you can't kill every vampire in Manhattan. And what happens when the berserkers rise as well? And whatever comes after them, and after that?"

Luke sighs. He uncurls his arms, slipping his hands into his pockets. "It's just you. On your own. That's not enough."

"The angels will be with me," Castiel says. "I'm going. I have to try."

Luke considers him. God, he's going to regret this. "Yes, I see that," he answers softly.

Castiel nods, a breathe releasing between his shoulders, posture loosening. "Good."

Luke pulls himself off of the door, reaching down and swinging the duffle-bag up over his shoulder. "Well, we'd better hit it then."

Castiel stares. "Excuse me?"

"It's a long drive," Luke continues, "so, we'd better get started."

"I don't understand."

"Well, you seem enamored with this idea of killing yourself for no good reason, so I'll have to be there to put a stop to it." Luke sighs.

"You're coming?" Castiel stares.

"It seems so."

Castiel's look narrows. "But not because you want to stop it..."

"Not because I  _care_  to stop it," Luke confirms.

"You're coming because... you think you still have some right to 'protect' me?"

"That's right." Luke's hand closes around the door and tugs it open. The cold, crisp light of the day crashes into them. The sun is already low on the horizon even though it's hardly three. Long shadows cut across the parking lot, slashing the salt-soaked asphalt in straight stern lines.

He heads for the truck. Castiel hurries after him.

"I don't _need_  your protection," Castiel insists firmly. "I have done perfectly fine on my own since I was fifteen years old."

Luke stops sharply, turning on him. "What's that then?" He points right at a jagged white line sliced through Castiel's eyebrow.

Castiel doesn't flinch. "Werewolf," he answers. He points right back at the sharp line across Luke's throat. "How about that?"

"Harpy," Luke answers hesitantly.

"I don't need an older brother," Castiel says, blue eyes stern and cold. "I've gotten used to not having one around by now."

There's that feeling again, that sinking wretchedness behind his gut. He wonders if it's guilt, but no, that would be ridiculous. None of it's his fault. He would have been there for him if it were possible. He did all he could.

"If it makes you feel better you can tell yourself I'm only there because I just don't want to live in a world without Real Housewives."

"I'm not as good of a liar as you are," Castiel answers.

Luke considers him. "I'm not too sure about that, actually..."

Castiel crosses his arms tightly against the cold, petulant face creasing as he glares at the waiting cars.

"Look," Luke tries, voice lightening, "does it really matter _why_? Isn't it maybe good enough that I'm willing to come and help?"

Castiel doesn't answer him, he considers the cars, look dark.

"We can even get waffles again," Luke jokes. He's starting to wonder if anything like that will ever come out of him without sounding sarcastic.

"What happens when we find Michael?" Castiel asks.

_If we find Michael, he's a worse hunter than I gave him credit for,_ Luke thinks. "We take it one step at a time."

"And you'll actually _help_ , you won't just wait for me to turn around, knock me unconscious and threaten the angels with sharp sticks until they wipe my memory and I wake up in some convent convinced I'm Sister Mary Catherine?"

"Not a bad idea actually," Luke grins.

Castiel levels a look.

Luke laughs, throwing his hands to either side. "I will _help_. Actually. No false memories of sexually restrained penitence. Promise."

"Alright," Castiel says warily, "if you will help."

Luke places his scorched hand over his chest. "Hand to God."

Castiel rolls his eyes, shouldering past him towards the minivan. "I'll see you in North Dakota."

Luke watches as he opens the door to the minivan and shuts it behind him. His lips drift back to a frown, his hand moving subconsciously up to the hex bag around his neck, fingers toying with it through his shirt. It doesn't matter. They won't find Michael. He's far too good for that. And this way he'll know Castiel is safe. That's what matters isn't it? Safety. It's not about sitting across a diner table asking for the ketchup, or watching the way he tilts his head exactly like he did when he was little. It isn't about watching ghosts through the lens of him. It's none of that. Because that would just be far too depressing. Even for him.

It's been dark for hours now, and would continue like that for a good while longer. By the time the sun rises he'll likely be just above Ohio, maybe even well into Michigan, half-way through the trip. If he's lucky he'll be by the lakes. It's always beautiful during sunrise in the winter, the ice floes jammed together like a shaken bag of broken glass, brilliant frozen sunlight bouncing off them at strange angles.

Castiel focuses. The road in front of him is nothing but a thin salt-stained line of darkness, lit by the pale pools of his headlights. It won't change much during the trip. They've already passed through Massachusetts, and that was as far south as the road will take them. Once they get into Wisconsin the snow drifts on the sides of the road will heighten, and likely by Minnesota they'll be taller than the cars.

"God, it really is _slow_ ,” a voice in the passenger seat groans.

Castiel _almost_  manages not to jump this time. The angel has his feet kicked up onto the dashboard, leaning the seat back without touching any of the controls. He's been popping in and out for the past five hours, and Castiel suspects his nerves might finally be getting used to it.

"Where are we now?" the angel asks.

Castiel shrugs. "New York."

“ _Still?_ ” the angel gapes.

"Yes, still," Castiel answers. "There's a lot of west to New York."

The angel crosses his arms glaring at the road. "I still don't get why we couldn't just wing it on over. We'd have beat your looney tunes brother by a day at least."

"We need our supplies, our weapons," Castiel insists. "If you want our help you have to take it in the manner in which we deliver it."

"What? Slowly?"

Castiel rolls his eyes. "I don't think Luke would have tolerated it."

"Tolerated what?"

"'Winging it on over'," Castiel answers.

The angel lets out a grumble. "Well, he could have sucked it."

Castiel can't help smiling just a touch.

The angel notices. "He really is a bit of a dick, huh?"

"'Bit' is perhaps an understatement."

"I mean, don't get me wrong," Dean says holding up his hands, "there's times when I threaten to shatter some serious heads over Sammy, and when he asked me to come down here on this wild goose-chase of brotherly love, I was pretty skeptical--"

"Wait," Castiel catches, "you didn't want to come?"

Dean shrugs. "Didn't say that, said I was skeptical. It's a pretty shut-your-eyes-and-pray sort of plan, you've got to admit."

"I thought angels were supposed to like praying," Castiel says.

"We don't have much practice," Dean replies, "there's no one listening all that carefully when we try it."

Castiel feels something behind his chest sink suddenly, but he eases it aside, trying to focus on the road. "That's an ominous statement."

"What? You think we get a hotline to the Big Man?"

"No," Castiel tries, "but I don't know, maybe... board meetings?"

Dean snorts. "Yeah not so much. Sorry to disappoint, but we're as deep in the dark as you crawlers. Not that anyone tossing around orders upstairs would ever admit that."

Castiel frowns. "...Crawlers? Is that seriously what you call us?"

"Hey, don't look at me, I didn't start it."

"You do realize we don't actually 'crawl', right?"

Dean grins. "Not anymore."

Castiel stares out at the road in front of him. There's a light snow, just a flurry passing by. The flakes zip by as the car's speed pushes them aside, slashed across the black of the night like stars passing.

"Do you think," Castiel starts hesitantly, "do you _know_  if there is a God?"

Dean turns to look at him fully, brows furrowed. "That got heavy fast."

"You started it," Castiel insists.

The angel's quiet for a long while. Castiel doesn't press him. He's not sure he wants to know the answer anyways.

"What do you think?" Dean asks finally.

Castiel adjusts his hands on the plastic of the steering wheel. The lines of the road drift by in short spurts of brilliance.

"Yes," he answers.

Dean looks back at him. "Yes what?"

"Yes. I think there is a God."

Dean smiles. It's small, hardly noticeable, but Castiel catches it all the same. "Well, there you go then," the angel shrugs, relaxing back into the passenger seat.

It's quiet for another moment. "What about you?" Castiel asks.

"What about me?" Dean watches the snow whip past the windscreen.

"What do you think?"

"About what?"

Castiel gives him a tired look.

"Fine, fine," Dean laughs. He keeps his eyes set ahead for a few minutes. "Honestly, I don't know, man. I just don't."

Castiel shifts in his seat. "That's comforting."

"Want me to lie? Say that we kick it every Sunday and watch Homeland?"

"No," Castiel frowns. "I just... I suppose I thought angels would be different. Different then you."

"You want me to whip a harp out? Pop a halo on? Play some Journey?" Dean grins. "What'd you expect?"

Castiel thinks before answering. "Serenity."

Dean huffs. "Well, I hate to tell you this, but Heaven isn't exactly the most stress-free work environment."

Castiel tries to imagine what he might mean but stops quickly. That's not helping. They have a job to do, that's all that matters. It's no use trying to imagine angels fighting across conference tables and chucking things at each other over cubical walls.

"So, I have to admit, I'm a little concerned here," the angel says, looping one hand behind his head.

Castiel glances at him. "Concerned?"

"Well, this is some major league level shit here. Sammy and I can swing it, I know that. We've seen our fair share. But how do I know you've got the chops? I can't be keeping an eye on you while trying to brain berserkers in some hick basement, you know."

Castiel frowns. "You don't need to keep an eye on me."

"I don't know that," the angel insists.

"You saw me fight."

"Yeah, a few vamps. Vamps. Berserkers... slightly different."

"I've fought berserkers," Castiel says... although, one doesn't really qualify the plural.

"Not to mention the distraction of all that day-time-soap material you all have going on," Dean continues seamlessly.

"It's not a distraction," Castiel says sternly.

Dean makes a sound like he's not buying that for ten cents.

"It's not," Castiel repeats. "I don't know Michael. I never have. He's just another hunter."

"That will be very convincing when you ask him not to doom the world because you've got the same tonsils."

Castiel focuses on the road. "I'll work on it." He glances back over at the angel. "You're only worried about me?"

"Hey now, I didn't say worried, I said _concerned_.”

"You're only 'concerned' about me? What about Luke?"

Dean shrugs. "Sam's known him forever. He says he's good. So, I buy it."

Castiel blinks. "He knows him?"

"Yeah," Dean answers simply. "Since your brother was what? Six?"

"Luke said they didn't know each other."

Dean let's out a derisive snort. "Yeah, well he would. Wouldn't he?"

Castiel turns back to the road. No one else is driving. They're alone and the snow is getting thicker. "Why would he lie about that?"

"Like I said," Dean says, "he's a dick."

Castiel turns on his wipers. "Right."

Luke stares at the shape of Castiel's tail lights, just visible through the swirling snow. He's not exactly sure what time it is. One, maybe two? The clock on the dashboard hasn't worked for years now. It doesn't matter. He has his phone if he needs to check, he just doesn't feel like fumbling it out of his pocket right now. It's not like it would make a difference anyways.

"It's 1:17," a voice says next to him.

It really isn't getting any easier to stop himself from drawing when they do that.

Luke doesn't look at him. "I think I told you to leave me alone. Serval times even."

"And I think your brother convinced you that was idiotic," Sam says. Luke can practically hear the way his brow furrows with irritated skepticism.

"He did nothing of the sort," Luke says, "I just realized he was too meat-headed to not run blindly into this deathtrap. I'll have to be there to make sure he doesn't end up in five or more pieces on some grimy cabin floor."

Sam shakes his head with a small bitter laugh. "Older brothers man, you just can't accept that we're more than capable of taking care of ourselves."

"That's because you're not," Luke says simply. He glances over at Sam. He looks just the same, longer dark hair pushed back, with just a few stands escaping from behind his ears, angular face, sharp jaw, eyes soft and stern all at once. Luke's still angry with him in more ways than he can easily account for, but his curiosity is starting prickle under his skin. He knows the feeling too well, and knows he won't be able to ignore it.

"How does that work anyway?" Luke asks.

"How's what work?"

"Angels with brothers. Is it like nuns? Just a big communal pot of familial titled co-workers? You seem too much like brothers to me for that to be the case."

"We are brothers," Sam says, "the way you and Castiel are, the way you and Michael are."

"Right. So... how does that work?"

"What do you mean?"

"Just seems weird for angels. Do you have parents? Uncles? Auntie angels?"

Sam gives a cock-eyed smile. "We have a Dad."

Luke smirks. "God?"

"No," Sam says quickly, "just a Dad.

"So, angels can...uh..." Luke trails.

"Make little angels?" Sam smiles. "Yeah, only they sort of, just, materialize out of their parents' heads..."

Luke squints at the road. "Gross."

Sam laughs lightly next to him. "Have you seen how you're born?"

"Alright, fair enough," Luke conceded. "So, do you have a mom, or partner biological creator, orrr...?"

"Our mother died when Dean and I were young," Sam answers.

"When was that?" Luke asks.

Sam leans his head back. "Five-- no, six thousand years ago?"

"So, not that far back then," Luke shrugs. "I mean, in the scope of eternity and the Cretaceous period and all that."

Sam smiles. He stares out the window, watching as the snow slashes past. One of his hands is running gently back and forth against the leather of the seat in an exploratory way.

"I didn't think this would go like this," he says quietly.

Luke looks away. "What go like what?"

Sam keeps his stare on the window. "Meeting you. I mean  _actually_ meeting you. Any of this really. I thought it would be different."

Luke swallows. There's a tight rage still glowing behind his lungs, threatening to snap free. He swallows and tries to keep it calm.

"I didn't know you were real," Luke says sincerely. "You never told me you were real. I thought you were a dream."

"I know," Sam says.

It's quiet for a moment.

The question that's been bouncing around his skull finally scrambles free. "Was it always you?"

Sam looks at him, expression confused. "What do you mean?"

"I dreamed..." Luke trails. His hands are tight on the steering wheel, and jesus christ this is a conversation he never, _ever_  planned on having. "Every dream I had... was it you? I mean: you, _you_? In all of them?"

Sam looks away quickly. "Uh, no. No."

Luke swallows. "Right. So... how many then?"

Sam focuses. "Um, seven?"

"...Seven?" Luke stares. "The you, the _dream you_  was only you _you_  seven times...?"

Sam shrugs. "Yup."

There were more than seven dreams. A lot more.

Luke stares dead ahead. He can still see the taillights of the minivan, peering through the darkness and the swirling white like some distance home, warm and lit, ready and waiting.

It's a long while before he speaks again.

"Why?" he asks finally.

Sam looks at him, eyes concerned, lips frowning. "Why did I come to you?"

Luke doesn't say anything. He keeps his eyes on the road.

Sam answers all the same. "Do you... remember the first time you prayed?"

_—Bark under his fingers and blood in his mouth. Sweating fingers despite the cold, fingers that are slipping. He's breathing too loudly. Alone. All alone. He can't hold on—_

It had been snowing that night too.

He'd heard her scream. And he'd prayed.

"It didn't make any difference," Luke says. "No one was listening."

Sam looks away. "After... I thought you might want someone to talk to. So, I came to you that night. The first time."

"I didn't want someone to talk to," Luke says, suddenly turning on him. "I wanted my mother."

Sam doesn't look at him. "I'm sorry, I couldn't help her."

The anger flares like a roar in his chest, but he quiets it, focusing as firmly as he can on the road. A sign flits past: Buffalo - 65 miles.

"How could you have expected anything else?" Luke asks. "You start snapping into my dreams when I'm six years old... I thought I made you up. What else would I think? I thought I was just that fucking lonely. I thought that made me a bit strange, invisible friend to the next level. But the truth is apparently far more fucked up."

Sam says nothing. He's still looking out the window.

"And then what? You appear. Out of nowhere--"

"To save your life."

"Yeah, right, of course, and why do you have to do that in the first place? Because Michael's finishing Dad's work, work I stopped, alone, without any help from angels with puppy-eyes who pop in for some dreamy walkabout every three years or so."

Sam isn't looking at him.

"And you tell me that I have to stop him now? You expect me to care? You expect me to let you put the family I tried so hard to keep safe at risk, in front of Michael's freight-train of a will?"

"I expect you to do the right thing," Sam says simply.

"Yeah well, I can tell you a secret I learned the last time I tried to 'do the right thing'. There is no fucking right thing. There's just you, the rest of the world, and a set of invisible dice. Nothing else."

Sam looks at him, firm and fast. "You don't believe that."

"How do you know? I told you not to touch my brain--"

"I didn't. I know because you told me," Sam says suddenly.

Luke stares back at him for a moment before turning away. "Yeah, well, maybe you shouldn't believe everything you hear."

The road slips past, splashed white with salt and the wear of winter. The yellow lines glow, intrusive and mathematical. He can't see the moon. The sky's as dark as everything else. There's only the snow.

"You're getting tired," Sam says quietly.

"Thirty hours is far from the worst drive I've done straight," Luke answers.

"You're getting tired," Sam repeats.

"I'll be fine," Luke says shortly.

"I can wake you up," Sam leads.

Luke glances at him suspiciously.

"Not-- I mean," Sam suddenly catches. He waves his hand, miming the forehead touch. "I can... fix the tired."

"I'd really rather you didn't," Luke says, focusing back on the road.

"I can drive," Sam suggests.

"Do you even know how to drive?" Luke laughs.

"It's easier than flying. Trust me," Sam answers.

"Yeah, not happening," Luke returns.

"Well, it's one or the other," Sam insists. "You're starting to slump."

Luke thinks for a while. He should rest. By the time they get there they will already be behind. They'll have to start right away.

"You can drive after Cleveland," he grumbles. "Deal?"

Sam looks back at him with a small smile. "Deal." He leans over and gazes at the console. "Which stick makes it go faster again?"

Luke gives him a look.

"Kidding," Sam grins.

"Hilarious."

Luke turns back to the road. It hasn't changed much. On the dashboard, under the swinging charms and the carved sigils in the leather, orange lights shine dully. The small stick numerals of the clock glow back at him. 1:39. 

 


	5. Yahkno?

"So, North Dakota, huh?" Dean says, taking a few steps. The snow caked over the parking lot crunches under his feet as he looks around through the heavy grey of the day. There's not much to see: white, grey, and more white. A few scattered skeletons of trees peer through the blankness, knocked dumbly side to side by the empty crying of the wind. "Thrilling."

It's colder. Much colder.

Castiel's traded his trench coat for some ridiculous downy parka, navy with one yellow and one red stripe across the chest. He's standing next to the rest of them now, chin nudged down into the neck of the garment that almost looked like it was slowly digesting him. Luke's always been good in the cold, far better than the heat, but there's a difference between cold and _cold_. If he had to guess it was negative twenty-two at the moment, which is more than chilly enough to warrant getting the thicker Gortex out of the trunk and throwing a fleece or two on underneath, along with some long-underwear just to be safe. He bought the long underwear after the first time he'd survived a werewolf chase through negative temperatures that lasted half the night. He soundly learned his lesson. Somethings are worth looking like an utter dweeb over.

Of course maybe neither he nor Cas wouldn't feel quite so cold if they weren't standing next to their present company.

The angels haven't layered up. Obviously they don't have the same need to do so. And while at first they looked perfectly normal in their cargo jackets, flannels, and worn jeans, now their flirting with straight up suspicious. The negative-twenty wind is knocking their hair back and forth, cheeks not even flushed, bare hands casually gesturing in the freezing air.

"We're gonna have to do something about that if you two insist on wandering near human beings," Luke grumbles.

"About what?" Sam asks, eyes curious and innocent.

"It's cold. Very cold," Castiel notes. "You don't look cold."

"What? You want us to look like Michelin Man there?" Dean laughs, gesturing at Castiel. "We're here to stop an apocalypse not play dress-up montage."

"You look..." Luke starts.

"Abnormal," Castiel finishes.

"Alright, well what do you suggest?" Sam asks, turning to face them.

Luke sighs and turns back to the truck, tugging open a back door. He fumbles around for a while and then throws two coats their way. They aren't especially warm, but at least over their other jackets the weight of the layers will give some sense of temperature sensitivity.

"And here," Castiel adds, throwing two caps their way.

Dean snatches his out of the air and frowns at it skeptically. "Smells like basement."

"Just put it on," Sam sighs, tugging on his own beanie and shrugging on the jacket.

Dean grumbles into his own, shifting it on his shoulders, visibly uncomfortable. "Alright, so what now?" he asks.

"What do you mean?" Castiel frowns.

"You're the hunters," Dean gestures out towards the landscape, "so hunt, yeah?"

Luke lets out a short laugh. "Right, of course, so what are we? Bloodhounds?"

"Not a bad metaphor--" Dean starts.

"No," Sam breaks in with a tired tone. "We will be here, to help, especially once we get into trouble. But we don't have experience finding things without... certain tools."

"And what tools are those exactly?" Luke asks, nudging his hands deeper in his pockets. Cold this hard has teeth, and this cold is gnawing at his knuckles with vicious persistence.

Sam opens his mouth then shuts it again, looking uncomfortable.

"When we aren't in heaven it's harder for us to make use of Great Cosmic Powers," Dean continues seamlessly. "We don't have our monster detectors handy."

"Great, so meat-head muscle is all we get? Always helpful," Luke snorts snidely.

"Yeah, well we'll see how helpful you find it when a berserker's got a hand halfway down your throat, alright there champ?"

"That's enough," Castiel says quietly, but strangely they both shut up all the same. "If you want us to hunt the first thing we need is a base of operations, a place to ideally find a sliver of internet and to gather research materials."

"I doubt we'll find internet," Luke notes. "There's a 'town' half a mile down the road, likely somewhere to hole up nearby. We can put together a plan of action there."

"And what will that consist of?" Sam asks.

Luke shrugs, turning back towards the truck. "Probably? Finding some berserkers."

There is a 'town' half a mile down the road. The quotations are practically visible floating on either side of the four buildings that make up the main street.

There's a two story police-station, the sign hanging wind-whipped and snow blasted. It's all too easy to imagine "Sheriff's Office" hanging there two hundred years ago with little else changed. Next to it is a tiny post office with an equal look of historical permanence. Across the street is a brighter building that has the look of a make-shift restaurant tucked inside of a general store, and lastly a hardware store snuggled up along-side.

The buildings stand firm, tired but with an air of permanence. The windward side of every one is blasted with snow, light just shining through the few windows in the grey of the day. They seem slightly pushed about, as if the weather's convinced them after decades, even centuries, to bend just enough into it's will. The thin strip of asphalt that cuts through them lost it's lines long ago. There's hardly any black to it at all under the packed snow and salt stains, scattered with sand and dirt to keep the traffic from slipping, although if it did slip, the snow-banks are high enough on either side that any car would likely just bounce off and back onto the road again. There's no bodies moving as huddled shapes through the streets, and who can blame them. The only thing occupying the street is a hulking snow-plow pulled up on the store side of the street. It's so ancient and so massive it looks half steam-shovel and half tank.

They park a good three meters in front of it.

"Are you sure that this is the right place?" Castiel asks Dean as they emerge from the minivan.

"We're not that incompetent, alright?" Dean says. "We might need you to ferret out exactly what tobacco-strewn smoky-ass cabin we have to bust down, but it's here. Somewhere."

"How can you be so sure?" Castiel asks. Luke can't help wondering the same thing himself. Sure, berserker country is North Dakota, Minnesota, but there's quite a bit of North Dakota and Minnesota, and this town doesn't seem particularly packed with Scandinavian supernatural imports.

"We can feel it," Sam says, stepping up to Luke's side in the bitter slice of the cold, lonely street. "He's close. Close enough."

"Wait," Luke starts, "are you feeling the seal, or are you feeling...?"

"We sense him," Dean picks up, "your brother. He's begun the transformation. He's closer to us now than the rest of you."

Luke frowns, turning back to the street.

He remembers glancing over his father's broad shoulder, too short to manage it without stretching up to his toes. He remembers drawings, scrawled messily across and ancient paper. He remembers horns, cracked skin, large shining eyes. Lots of eyes. He pushes the memory away. It doesn't matter. He's not here for Michael. He won't even see Michael. He's sure of that at least.

A suddenly noise in the frozen street draws their attention. A door snaps in the wind behind the general store, opening to spill a pool of yellow light from inside. A man walks out, broadly built, flannel sleeves rolled up to half bicep. He hefts a barrel of grease over his shoulder and empties it steaming into a nasty looking pile of snow behind the building. The man shoves his thick strawberry blonde hair out of his eyes with a forearm. He stays there for a moment, taking a deep savoring breath of the icy air, before turning and heading back inside.

"Maybe we should ask Bjorn there a few questions?" Dean tries.

Luke stares back at the building, it's worn resilient slump against the snow. "Maybe we should."

He heads for the store, Castiel close behind him in that ridiculous coat. The angels hardly make any noise as they move over the snow. He'll have to tell them to knock that off as well.

The door opens with a rush of heat, heavy and welcome. Luke pushes himself all the way inside, just holding the door behind him. Castiel hurries in behind, breathing out with a huff of relief in the warmth. Sam's behind him. Dean stands in the doorway, holding it half open with his back as they clog up the entrance.

"Shut the fucking door," Luke snarls over his shoulder. 

Dean gives him a displeased look but steps deeper inside always, letting the old wood shut behind them with a gentle ring of the bell above.

Luke steps deeper inside, giving the interior a thorough inspection. It's the same deal with many small town stores: there's a fry station and some grills just visible through an open long window in the back, the crackling of cooking leaking out from it. There's a few aisles for general goods, supplies, etc. At the back are some fridges packed with beer. There's a few tables and maybe three booths on the opposite side ready for anyone to plop down and warm up with some hash or gravy-drenched meatloaf. The stale smell of chewing tobacco hangs on the air, along with the scent of fire. The culprit is hiding behind the counter, a short stove, all woven metal, no glass to share the light of the fire or compromise maximum heat output. There’s a neat stack of wood beside it waiting to fuel when needed. 

Just through the window at the back Luke can make out the shape of the hulking flannel-clad man they'd just seen. He's moving in a practiced way through the limited space before the fryer. There's a few patrons sipping black coffee over local newspapers at a handful of tables to their left. A forty-something, permed and dyed blonde, looks up from behind the counter displays heavy with lottery tickets, jerky, and chewing tobacco.

"Oh, 'ello. Yah snuck up on me ther," she beams.

And christ, he always forgot how much he _hated_ that accent. It's his  absolute least favorite. He would listen to an Alabama deep swamp drawl or some south-Boston snap for days before enduring an hour's worth of conversation with _this_.

The woman leans on her elbow, a gossip magazine spread out on the counter in front of her. She's almost pretty, except for the weight of winter and the ancient practiced way her makeup sits on her skin. Well, that combined with the thick kitten sweatshirt staring back at them, glittering with rhinestones.

"Stay here," Luke mutters to the angels, moving towards the counter, and leaving them by the door.

"Yoo boys stapin' throo? Don't recognize yah," she says, eyeing Sam's height, Dean's freckles, Luke's posture, and Castiel's stare appreciatively. "Not tha best time o' year fer ah visit, yahkno."

Luke opens his mouth to answer her but suddenly Castiel is next to him. "Our friends are interested in finding some farmland." Castiel gestures behind them to Sam and Dean. "We've told them that it's not the best time of year to be checking fields, but they're eager to start come spring." He takes a step closer. "You know how this 'hip farm' trend is spreading and they don't know much better. But, we figured we might as well give them a hand."

Luke's almost impressed.

The woman eyes Sam and Dean, leaning closer to him and Castiel over the counter. "Ahgeez, whatr' dey looking' tah get up too?"

"Angus," Castiel answers flawlessly. "Easy enough to get started on beef."

"Dey don' look like dey kno ah steer from ah heifer," the woman continues with a mischievous smile.

"You know how it is," Luke adds, "read some organic farming magazines, suddenly an expert on everything."

"We 'ad some Jersey woman up 'ere last Joone," the woman continues with a low voice. "She set all up on tha hill thur with 'er lil chicken coop, an' all 'er pretty organic stickers. Didn' last one season. No one 'ere's paying no four-fuckin-fifty for dem pretty blue eggs, lemmetellyoo."

Luke smiles. "Trust me, they're settled on it. Don't know if they'll last the year, but they're willing to pay plenty for a shot at something."

"Eez that right?" the woman asks, glancing over at them. She snorts, "Dey woon't last a season. Doon't even 'av glooves on. Poor things."

"I don't suppose there's anyone we might asks about some of the local land?" Luke says.

The woman smiles at his blue eyes. "Oo shure. Aay! Ivaan!" she calls towards the back.

In the kitchen the broad flanneled back turns.

"Of course it's fucking Ivan," Luke mutters to Castiel as the man ducks under the door and heads towards them.

"Theese boys 'er are lookin' for some land fer thur friends der," the woman says.

Sam and Dean step closer from behind as Ivan approaches from the front. Luke evaluates him as he approaches. He's big. Very big. As tall as Sam, twice as broad, and apparently constructed of concrete under the strained flannel. His orange-tinted blonde hair has a darker shade of beard to match, thick but neatly trimmed.

He evaluates them carefully, Luke especially, blue eyes skeptically narrow. "Eez that right?" His voice sounds like someone banging on the inside of an empty barrel. His accent isn't as thick as the woman behind the counter's but it's still present.

"Der looking' tah do some farmin', Ivaan." She grins cheekily, "eezin't that nice?"

Ivan glances at Sam and Dean over Luke's shoulder. "You don' look much like farmers."

"Yeah, well you don't look much like a fry cook there slim," Dean chimes in.

Luke's very tempted to step on his foot.

Ivan's face curls into a wide grin, teeth dazzlingly white and straight as a regiment. "No. I don'."

"Regarding the land," Castiel says cleanly, "we're just looking around. We know the timing isn't the best, but what's it look like around here?"

Ivan nods out the window. "See fer yourself. Lots ah' white."

"Is a lot of the land family owned?" Castiel continues, watching him carefully. "I'm sure we wouldn't want to take something out of generations. Much of that around here?"

Ivan crosses the trunks of his arms in front of his chest, leaning back slightly. "Thur's Blomgren's, they've got five-hundred so acres south of town, and Landvik's near double ten miles west or so."

"Impressive," Luke notes. "Lot of Scandinavian families round these parts then?"

Ivan's face doesn't flinch. "A few."

"Been here long?"

"Not long," Ivan says, "just since we arrived."

"I couldn't help noticing," Castiel says, "when we passed that welcome sign back at the start of town, this place was settled in 1509? That seems very early for North Dakota. Three or four hundred years early."

"We 'ad intrepid ancestors," Ivan says.

"Dat's right," the woman joins, "Ottoson's been round long as any. Ivan's and mine 'ave been 'ere since those first days."

"So, you're related?" Luke asks.

"Family store," Ivan answers.

"You know I didn't catch your name," Luke says turning to the woman.

"Eetz Inga," she smiles back pleasantly. "Inga Ottoson."

"Ivan and Inga," Luke repeats dully.

"Are you staying?" the deep voice sounds.

"What's that?" Luke asks, glancing back.

Ivan holds his stare firmly. Luke can just see a thin misty layer over the ocean-blue of his eyes. "Are you staying long?" Ivan repeats. 

"Depends on what we find," Sam says from behind them.

"You'll be lookin' fer a place den?" Inga asks.

"We'd appreciate a recommendation," Castiel says.

"Der's Steven's, don't kno how many of dem heez got open this god-fer-saken time o' de yeear, but it's 'bout de only place tah stay round des parts."

"And where would we find Steven?" Luke asks.

"Owns ah set ah cabins, rents 'em," Ivan answers, "in summer mostly. Take tha main stretch down to yer first left, den first right. There's ah sign: 'Cabins'."

Dean grins. "Succinct, huh?"

Ivan eyes him steadily. "Don' know if anyone's interested in selling any land just now, boys," he lowers his gaze back to Luke's. "There's not much goin' on these parts these days."

Luke holds his looks, the thin smokiness in front of Ivan's eye is shifting like someone swirling cream in coffee. "We'll see," Luke smiles. "Worth a look anyhow. Wouldn't want to waste a trip."

"Eet'z always nice tah see sum new faces," Inga bubbles.

"Speaking of new faces," Castiel starts, "we had a friend passing through, recommended the place to us. He said he might be sticking around. I don't suppose you've notice anyone else new recently?"

A few of the patrons at the tables eye them over their mugs, bored local expressions hardly moving an inch.

Inga chews her lip thoughtfully. "Ack, no, don't theenk so, hun. Doon' get many, yahknow. What'd yer friend look like, handsome as you boyz?"

Castiel glances at Luke. He tightens his jaw, but it's no good not answering now. "Dark hair, blue eyes, like his," Luke gestures to Castiel, "about as tall as I am. He'd have a scar, six inches long or so, across his temple and the edge of his eyebrow." Luke mimes the line on his own face.

"Jeez, sounds nasty. How'd dat happen den?" Inga leans heavily on the desk, the sparkles on her kitten sweatshirt winking at him vexingly.

Luke holds her gaze perfectly. "His dad slipped with a knife."

"Ooch! I can't imagine eet!" Inga exclaims. " 'E must tah felt ah right baastard."

"Not as much as you'd think," Luke answers.

"Those cabins can be hard tah find in the dark," Ivan says behind them.

Luke turns back to him. "What about you? You see anyone like that?"

Ivan stares back. "I don' get out much."

“Well, then we don’t need to waste any more of your time.” Luke says.

Inga grins behind her counter, bright and cleanly painted nails tapping against a plastic cover laid over faded photographs and various odds and ends on the wooden top. "You boyz'll come back on over fer breakfast, eh? Best in town!"

"Only breakfast in town," Ivan clarifies.

The cold slices sharply as they exit the store, pushing against them with all the eagerness of a dog left too long at home. Castiel zips his ridiculous parka up higher.

"Well, that was easy," Dean sniffs.

"One berserker doesn't give us much," Castiel says quietly, hurrying back towards the car. "We're not here to find berserkers, we're here to find the seal."

"It's got to be on one of those farms he mentioned, right?" Sam adds. "They've been here the longest, and the seal's always in a hub of beast activity."

"That's another thing," Luke says, stopping in front of his truck. "One berserker flipping flapjacks doesn't exactly make a hub. This town is looking pretty hollow for a monster capital. Are you absolutely sure this is the right place?"

"Positive," Sam says, glancing around.

"Fine," Luke shrugs. It's not his problem anyways, what does he care if it's the right place or not. As long as Castiel stays within reach and out of Michael's eyeshot. "Let's go find the 'Cabins'."

It's not a long drive, ten minutes, maybe fifteen given the roads. By the time they get there the sky is shifting into white, not with sun, but with that heavy pale that always comes before snow. Castiel glances up at it as he steps out of the minivan, sniffing quietly. It smells like snow as well. Heavy and fast flying. The tall skeletal pine trees looming around them on all sides sit still, frozen, waiting undaunted for the storm.

Luke's already moving towards the only cabin with a light lit in the window. There's a small, worn sign touting "Management" hung on the door. Off behind it Castiel can see the darkened shadows of the other cabins, squat chunks of geometry slid neatly between sappy trunks and shadows.

"So, remind me again." Dean's suddenly at his elbow, voice close, and to Castiel's surprise his breathe was warm in the air between them. "Why didn't we just drag that guy out back and knock him around till he was drooling answers?"

"He's a berserker," Castiel answers, sterner than he meant.

"Yeah, right, and I think Sammy and I can handle one berserker," Dean scoffs, hands sliding into his pockets as they step closer to the cabin.

"You're wrong," Castiel says.

"I'm really not," Dean answers.

Castiel stops, turning to face him. The angel's eyes seem especially bright against the hollow landscape. "Berserkers are warriors above all else. They are a force, tied together by blood. One is troublesome, three present a trial, and ten make an army. If we had fought him, as soon as he shifted, the rest would have come fast on his heels. Maybe you can handle one, but if this really is a hub I'd rather avoid being surrounded by enemies that can't be harmed by steel or fire, who punch hard enough to bust through two feet of concrete."

"Bet I could get through three," Dean grins cheekily. "Four if I've had my Ovaltine."

Castiel narrows his eyes. He's starting to wonder when he's being intentionally asinine. "Good for you."

They turn back to the cabin, stepping up the few creaking steps that keep it off the ground.

"And anyways," Castiel sighs, "if they knew that we knew, they might warn Michael. He would have been gone or done before we could get the information we need. Best to remain beneath the radar."

Dean shrugs. "Whatever you say man, as long as we get there in time."

They push open the door just in time to hear Luke tying up arrangements for the night, one hand resting casually on the desk of the proprietor. The man Steven, is that what they'd said?-- has a look of tired irritation hung about it, likely due to opening a cabin at this time of year. His hair's dark and long, tied behind his head in a practiced pony-tail. Sitting down it's hard to judge his height, but Castiel can see there's a lean strength to him all the same: corded muscles threaded, veins standing out clearly on his forearms where he's pushed his shirt up to his elbows as he scribbles in a ledger.

"Now don't be shovin' back in 'ere if der's mice scramblin' round and that place 'as gone to tha dust bunnies will yah? I told yah they wasn't ready fer guests, won't be sometime."

"We understand," Luke says calmly. "We can handle mice."

"Foine," Steven mutters, pulling open one of many worn draws on the wooden dark under him and fiddling inside. "Der's clean sheets in tha dresser, if de mice haven't gotten 'em again."

"Understood," Luke says.

"'An der's only two beds," he adds, eyeing the four of them suspiciously. "That gonna be ah problem fer you boyz?"

Luke shrugs. "They don't mind the floor," he glances up at Sam's height where he waits patiently next to him. "Isn't that right?"

Sam gives him a tired look. "No, not at all."

"Ahlright den," Steven sighs. His fumbling hand tugs out an old brass key and tosses it to Luke. Luke catches it neatly.

"Noomber three," Steven directs. "And yer gonna want dees," he stands, reaching behind the door to pull out two steel shovels.

"What for?" Sam asks.

"Dig yer way in," Steven says, "likely gonna have tah dig yer way back out again too if dat's sky's anythin' tah go by."

"We'll manage," Luke affirms. He slides two hundred-dollar-bills down on the counter and takes the shovels. "We won't be here long."

Steven mutters something as they leave that Castiel's fairly sure is "fookin' hope so". The door slaps shut behind them and they begin the trudge towards the cabin.

"You start to shovel," Luke directs, "we'll grab some supplies from the car."

"Oh, we'll shovel?" Dean glares.

"You asked for our help, so yes, you will shovel," Luke glares right back, shoving the handles in their direction.

"It's fine," Sam returns easily, grabbing one. "We'll be faster anyways."

Dean curses under his breath before digging his own shovel easily into the snow.

"Come on," Luke says. Castiel follows him. They get about three feet away before Luke's eyeing him intensely. "What was that back there?"

Castiel glances over. "What was what?"

Luke raises an eyebrow. "Hipster farmers?"

Castiel focuses on the path. "I suppose you would have gone with FBI? Or state troopers?"

"Maybe," Luke shrugs. "Why didn't you?"

"It's a small town. Something like that would draw notice, gossip, everyone eager to know what it was about, especially without any reported incidents to excuse it. Farming gets enough excuse to learn about the land, and ready money makes people interested in opening their mouths. The added excuse of ignorance avoids any seriously incriminating slips."

Luke smiles, turning back to the path.

"What?" Castiel asks.

"That's clever," Luke says, looking back at him with a shine in his eyes. "It's good."

Castiel digs his hands deeper in his pockets and tries to ignore the sense of satisfaction in his chest. He doesn't need approval. Especially not from him.

Luke reaches his truck, pulling back the tarp covering the back and rummaging around inside. He comes back out with a duffle-bag that he drops at his feet. He dives back in and this time emerges with a baseball bat knitted tight in his fingers. He drops it down on top of the bag.

He glances up, noticing Castiel's attention. "Need one?"

"No," Castiel says, pulling open the door to his own vehicle. "I'm fine."

Berserkers. He still remembers the first time he found one, some Minnesota town where people were turning up with heads beaten to a pulp, holes punched straight their they chests, bodies ripped clean in half. He hadn't been prepared. He broken three knives against it's chest, one machete, and emptied two magazines before, luckily, managing to smash a two-by-four across the back of it's head about a dozen times. That one had been about fifteen years old at the time. And half the size of Ivan.

Castiel grabs his own supplies and turns around, shutting the door behind him.

Luke levels a stare. "... A _cricket_ bat?"

"It works just as well as yours, I promise." Castiel says.

Luke shakes his head, tucking the bat into his bag and turning back towards the cabin. He goes still very suddenly.

"Where are the angels?"

Castiel spins.

There's nothing, just two shovels, half a cleared path, and the forest. Tall and dark. Waiting. Watching.

Up above them, the first flakes of snow begin to fall.

 


	6. Open 24/7

Darkness is gathering faster than he'd realized. Shadows cluster together for warmth, between the still solid shapes of the trees, under the edges of snow drifts, behind the sharp geometry of the cabins huddled amongst the rest of it. There's a wind picking up, pressing hungrily against his cheeks. The snow whips from side to side.

"Maybe they're just inside," Luke says quickly, peering around through the deepening dusk. The shovels lay askew, abandoned. It doesn't look like they're inside.

"I'll check," Castiel says, hurrying towards the cabin. "Stay here."

Luke doesn't like the commanding tenor of that request but it doesn't matter, it's for the best anyways. Someone should stay. Luke follows Castiel as far as the shovels anyways, looking down at them as his brother wades through the five-foot-deep snow to get to the door.

There's no footprints leading anywhere, but that's not much help, is it? They don't havef to leave footprints if they don't want to.

He hears Castiel shoulder the stubborn door open and hurry inside. The trees watch, silent but looming. Luke turns back towards the cars. He's suddenly feeling far too naked without at least that bat in his hands.

His boots make it half way back to the cars before slowing and then stopping. There's a truck parked next to his. A truck he doesn't recognize.

"Castiel," he calls out, trying to keep his voice in that nice even place that a passerby might read as a simple request for attention, but a hunter would know it means trouble.

The wind and snow shove his voice back at him.

Luke's eyes scan the close darkness all around him as he approaches his bag carefully. It doesn't seem like there's anyone in the truck, but it can't have been there more than two minutes. He would have noticed.

The snow's gone a dark deep blue in the heavy twilight, the wind groaning against the trees. It's so fucking cold, he's starting to loose the feeling in his fingers.

He picks up his pace and reaches the bag, kneeling down quickly, scrambling for the closures. The canvas doesn't feel right. Something's wrong.

"Looking fer this?"

Luke turns instantly, hand moving to his hip. The baseball bat thuds into the side of his face.

 

Castiel peers into the darkness of the cabin. It smells of cold, sawdust and forgotten places. He takes his phone from his pocket, using the light to scan the space. A stunned deer's head stares back at him in the pale blue, shadows stark and hard in the dramatic light. There's nothing here.

"Hello," Castiel tries calling out. He swallows. "Dean?"

There's nothing.

"Sam?"

Silence.

Castiel swears, turning back the way he came. The snow is deep, freezing. Stepping back into the foot-holes he made before saves him some of the cold, but he can still feel where the snow falls into the tops of his boots and melts against his socks. He stumbles out of the bank into the space the angels had managed to clear before vanishing.

He looks up and suddenly his eyes widen. "Luke?"

The wind moans like a wounded thing through the trees. The two cars are just where they left them, bags just where they left them. But there's a smear against the white of the snow on the ground. Blood - color sucked away into black by the darkness.

Castiel stares. He couldn't have been gone more than five minutes.

"Fuck." Where the hell were they?

He pulls his cellphone free again, holding his glove in his teeth to work the touch-screen. The cool blue shines up into his face. Small friendly text blinks back at him, “No Service".

"Fuck," he repeats.

He stands there for a moment, thinking as quickly as he can. It takes him a few seconds, then he's moving towards the splatter. He kneels down, close enough to see it through the darkness. It's a slash, a line thicker at the bottom than the end. There's not a lot of it. It's easy enough to read the mark. A blow, something hard enough to break skin. It might have been a cut... no, a cut would have spilled more, and would have left a trail. There's no trail, just the one mark. Luke hadn't shouted out. Unconscious? Blow to the head?

Castiel shines the light of his phone, examining the patterns in the snow. There's no sign of a struggle, no marks of dragged feet that would speak to the moving of an unconscious body. Whoever moved Luke must have carried him. Or vanished with him. Castiel can see the familiar tread of his own boots marked in the snow, Luke's along-side. He doesn't know what the tread on the angel's looks like but there's definitely four sets of footprints.

No. He squints against the harshly lit snow. Not four. Five.

He stands up quickly, looking for a cleaner print. He finds one, a meter or so back, away from the rest of theirs. It's a large, heavy.

The prints ease back. Castiel follows them until they stop, right beside a fresh set of car-tracks, tracks with chains notched into the snow.

He'd said Michael was good. He'd said he was the best he'd ever seen. He'd said he needed to protect _him_. "Idiot," Castiel growls. He turns quickly back towards the minivan, grabbing his bag on the way.

 

Luke blinks. The first thing to slip through is pain. Lots of pain. The side of his jaw feels as though someone's tried to break rocks with it, and there's a dull weight to his entire skull that pulses sharp and eager every second or so.

He lets out a groan, rolling his neck, and _fuck_  that's a mistake. No moving the head. Definitely no moving the head.

"Think I 'it yah ah bit hard thur," a voice says somewhere close by.

It's a familiar voice. Somehow. Luke grits his teeth, trying to open his eyes. "Yeah, no shit."

"Sorry 'bout that. This arm ah mine. Can't always keep it as checked as I'd like, yahkno."

Luke focuses. The world begins to slip in through the mist once more. It's a dark room. He can't be sure if that's because there's no windows of if it's just become night that fast. Who knows, after a blow like that it might be morning already.

The walls around him are stone, floor dirt. Basement it is.

He gives his body an experimental twist. His hands are behind his back. Tied. Tied well. His ankles are bound as well, each one to a leg of the stern wooden chair he's apparently sitting in.

There's a bare light-bulb shining down on him, and someone else, a large body with arms crossed standing five feet in front of him.

Luke knew he recognized the voice. "Fry-cooking getting a bit dull?"

Ivan doesn't smile. He stares back at him with all the stoney strength he'd had before, whenever before was. "I want tah talk to you."

Luke can't help laughing, even if it does make his head thud like a steel drum. "So, buy me a coffee. You could make up some grits. We can talk."

"I want to talk now," Ivan says firmly.

"Have to warn you," Luke says, "chairs, basements, head-wounds, none of that has historically made me very talkative."

"I can be ah persuasive fella," Ivan says simply.

"Trust me," Luke grins, "I've met better."

He doesn't hit him. That's a surprise. In his vast experience that's normally when they hit him. Luke had braced and everything. But Ivan's arms remain crossed against his chest.

Luke frowns. "Well, what do you want to talk about?"

Ivan's face is set deep in shadows. There's something Luke recognizes flitting behind his cloudy eyes. Fury. Deep, unquenchable fury.

"I want to talk about Michael Milton."

 

The minivan skids to a stop outside the lonely shells of the main-street shops, sliding roughly on the snow-covered asphalt.

Castiel stares out for a moment, considering with his hands firm on the steering wheel. Most of the shops are dark, silent. They look even worse off like this, hulking and hollow in the night. Sleeping, waiting. The only light is a pale blue, shining from the beer and beverage fridges lined up inside Inga and Ivan's store.

He lost the tracks when they hit the main road. Apparently there's plenty of trucks with chains on the tires in this part of America. Who would have thought?

There's three cars left parked on the street: one ancient Volvo in front of the sheriff's office, a rust-red truck back towards the start of the street, and a newer Ford F150 parked just to one side of the hardware store.

Castiel considers his options for a moment, even two. His hand closes around the cricket-bat on the passenger seat and he kicks open his door, heading out onto the street.

The wind shatters against him instantly, snow blowing into hair, lonely and starved for warmth. It's even colder than it was, negative thirty or worse. He can't stay outside too long in this. He hopes wherever Luke is he isn't outside too long in this. He can hardly breathe in cold this vicious, it presses down his throat into his lungs, holding onto his warmth with sad desperate fingers.

Castiel tugs his hat harder over his ears and heads for the general store, bat firmly in hand. He reaches the door as quickly and quietly as he can manage, shoving a hand into his pocket for his pick. He's going to have to take off his gloves and he's already regretting that. He pushes a hand against the handle to test it's style and to his shock it swings down freely. It's open.

He stares at it, eyebrows furrowed. If this was New York, or Chicago, or suburban Jersey, he'd be suspicious, but is that justified here? Maybe people just didn't lock up, maybe they relied on sleeping above the shop and having a well loaded shotgun for security and didn't trouble with urban nonsense like locks and alarms.

But he doesn't know. Not for sure. This isn't right. None of it. This isn't how he hunts. He lies low, he researches for days, sometimes even weeks. He strikes exactly and precisely when and where he knows it will have an effect on only what deserves it. He doesn't shove into family businesses brandishing a cricket-bat when a berserker fry-cook could take his head off with a punch two-steps inside the door.

He hunts alone. There's a good reason for that.

Where the hell were the angels?

The cold burns down the neck of his coat and he tightens his jaw. He shoves open the door and hurries inside, shutting it instantly behind him.

The shop is silent, moaning of the wind muffled and sealed out. The only sound is the gentle ringing of the bell over the door. Castiel grips his bat firmly, waiting for whatever the hell might be hiding in the dark. He takes a tentative step deeper inside. Then another. The cold light of the fridges casts hard shadows against the floor. The kitschy dolls and figures arranged behind the register shine and wink at him in the darkness.

Someone's watching him. He's been doing this long enough now to know that. This wasn't how this was supposed to be. He wasn't supposed to be alone. He barely managed to handle one berserker on his own, let alone an army, let alone an army led by a hunter intent on destroying the world.

He swallows. There is something he can try. He hasn't done it for a long time. He's not even sure if that's how it works...

"Dean?" His voice sounds impossibly loud in the stillness of the store. But christ he started, he might as well finish.

"Uh, I don't know if I'm supposed to kneel, or anything but... I don't where the hell you two went, and I could really use some help right now." He pauses. He's remembers prayers being slightly more contrite. "Um, please," he adds, just to be safe.

There's a gentle click behind him. He spins instantly, cricket-bat ready. The door's locked. There's a tall figure standing by it, face lost in darkness.

"Oo, hullo thur," a bubbly voice sounds.

Castiel turns sharply. There's another figure in the dark, a figure in a glittering over-sized sweatshirt.

"Breakfast's not til seven, hun," Inga smiles.

Castiel takes a step back. There's shadows rising behind her. Tall ones.

"Altho," her voice grins in the dark, "can't say I'm too surprised. We had a feelin' you might just bee back," The figures behind her press closer. There's five. No, ten. More than ten.

The cat on Inga's sweater stares dumbly back at him.

"Donchakno," she says, stepping closer. Her eyes swim, misted over with a dull cloud of smokiness. "We don' 'ave ah hunting' season round here no more."

 

Luke flexes his wrists against the ropes gently. They are fucking tight.

"What do you want to know?" Luke asks, keeping his voice clam, keeping the conversation going, while he evaluates his options.

He's not getting out of these ropes without something else to help, a knife, an especially rough wall, anything. He'd left his gun and blades in the truck, they wouldn't help him in a fight with these things. He's still got the small knife tucked into his boot for exactly this manner of situation, but with his feet tied like this it will be a challenge to get to...

"Where is he?" Ivan asks.

Luke laughs. "You're kidding right?"

Ivan stares stonily back at him, arms tight across his chest. The baseball bat is leaning against the stone wall, just within Ivan's reach.

"I don't know where he is. You're supposed to know where he is," Luke explains. "That's why we're here, because you are supposed to know."

"Oh knew," Ivan answers, stare dark, "we all knew. Tho I wish tah hell we hadn't."

 

Castiel evaluates his options. Suddenly, the cricket bat is feeling a little useless under his fingers. The group steps closer, not closing in, not yet, just circling. He can see one or two of the men who had sat in the restaurant earlier, Steven with his long black ponytail. Turns out he is tall. Very tall.

Inga stands in front of them. "Yah can poot dat thing der down now," she smiles, nodding in the direction of the cricket bat.

Castiel holds on tighter. "Why would I do that?"

"Well, deez days 'fraid eet won't be dooin' yah much good," Inga clucks. "Eezin't that right boys?"

The men behind her say nothing. Castiel looks at them more carefully. Some of them seem alert, normal and aware as Steven or Inga. But some of them... some of them are different. They seem hollow. Familiar.

Castiel grips the bat tightly. "Where's the seal?"

"Ack hun, dat's yesterday's news," Inga says.

Castiel looks back at the men, the ones with nothing behind their swirling eyes. "What's wrong with them?"

"Nuthin's _wrong_ ,” Inga says, a sudden edge to her voice.

One steps closer to her. There's something wrong with his head. It's the wrong shape. Like a melon that's been knocked firmly against a wall.

"Dat 'friend', de one yer lookin' fer," she looks straight back at Castiel, smokey eyes spinning. "We can't be lettin' you find 'im."

 

Luke stares back at Ivan. "Michael's gone?"

"That's right."

Huh. Maybe one day he'll get tired of being right absolutely all of the time.

"He came," Ivan says, "lookin' fer something, just like you."

"I'm guessing he found it," Luke says. "That's why there's no one here, no hoards of berserkers. You've been summoned already, you're waiting for the final call the battle." Luke narrows his eyes. "Why are you here?"

"We were told tah wait."

"For what?"

"Fer you."

Ivan takes a step forward.

"Yer 'friend' didn't just find. 'E took, and you will tell me where 'e is. You will tell me 'ow to find 'im," he grits.

Luke's eyes narrow. "What did he take?"

Ivan's broad face stares back down at him. He's holding his arms very tightly, as if he's trying to contain something fierce, the smoke behind his eyes is swirling faster. The color in his face has gone darker, heavier.

"Blood fer blood, that's de oldest trade innit?"

"Some might say it's flesh pandering." Luke shrugs, "But suppose it is. What did he take?"

"She didn' do nothin'," Ivan says. His arms flex, his face darkens. "Nothin'. She was just tryin' tah live. But I guess sometimes dat's just too much tah ask. Fer some. Fer her."

 

Castiel glances over his shoulder. The door's still locked. It's half glass, half wood. There's windows beside it, fronting the shop. Large windows. There's two berserkers by the door. None by the window. He can't make it to the door _and_  open it before they're on him. He could maybe make it to a window, run hard enough, jump hard enough, sprint for the minivan. Maybe.

"Ingrid always thought she was so mooch better den us," Inga continues. "She didn' have The Change, didn' 'ave tah feer dat stubbin' 'eh toe, or tappin' some electric fence would wake The Strength in 'er. You kno what eetz like, 'avin' ah sisteer lordin' et over yah eech and eevery godfersaken day? Well, see what dat attitude got 'er."

Inga shrugs, sending her sweatshirt sparkling. "Ivan was broken up oover eet but 'e'll realize soon enuf. Eetz the best way. She was better after all, deservin' ah dat honor. Shee'z helpin' open the door to oour paradise."

"Michael used her? To open the seal?" Castiel tests. "It needed a death. An innocent. The spell?"

"De good ones always doo," Inga says. "Blood fer blood, and yah doon' become ah lamb withoot makin' some sacrifices."

"You let him kill your sister?" Castiel levels.

Inga's jaw hardens. "Hadn't yoo heard? End ah de world, hun. Oour time's comin', der's no room in dat world fer girls like our Ingrid, wether Ivan knows eet or not."

"You know we want to stop it," Castiel says.

"Ooch! Clever one you aare," Inga teases.

"Then why not before. I saw you, and you, and you," he looks over her shoulder, "you all could have taken us before."

"Didn' kno yah then," Inga says. "But we got our phone call. Aan we can' go lettin' you run off now."

Castiel looks around. "Where are the rest of you? I thought this was a hub."

"Waitin' fer their orders. Oout on tha field. But doon' yah worry none. We got plenty left behind fer you."

Castiel imagines the window. It's five feet back. They were getting closer to him. If they stepped two feet nearer they would be able to grab him before he made it. Why hadn't they tried yet?

"So, hunter," Inga glances around his back. "Where yer pretty angels?"

Ah. Castiel swallows, controlling his tone easily, "Waiting. Until they're needed."

Inga's eyes narrow. "Don' kno if I beleeve dat."

Castiel looks back at her. She's waiting, they're all waiting. He looks at the few with nothing in their eyes, the shells, standing but not seeing. Moving but not living.

"You are afraid," Castiel says calmly.

"Oof what?" Inga laughs, "always wanted tah fight some angels. None ah our blood done that since tha 'omeland days."

"You act as though you're immortal, but you're afraid of it, aren't you?" he presses, gesturing to the hollow things amongst them. He slides one step back. "You don't want to spend eternity like them."

"Eetz an honor!" Inga says sharply. He face is shifting. Her eyes are clouding. "We're tha front-lines of tha end oof days. We are Waar's beast's, hunter. And 'e 'as called us. We don' feear no death."

Inga's body snaps, face shifting into dark purple, strength flooding her lungs with a roar.

The window's three feet behind him. Castiel jumps as hard as he can.

"'Ee's yer brother," Ivan says sternly. "You can find 'im. Dat's why yer 'ere isn't it? With those angels?"

Luke's attention narrows. "How do you know we have angels?"

"Word spreads quick, small town like this," Ivan answers.

Damned angels. So useful. Especially right now, exactly when they fucking should be. He should have known.

"I don't know where Michael is," Luke sighs. "I knew he would be gone by the time we got here. I don't intend to find him."

"But yah could," Ivan says. "Couldn' yah?"

Luke stares back. "You want to kill him. Because he killed your sister. Because he took something away. Well guess what? He takes a lot of things away. He learned from the best. You're not the first thing that's sworn vengeance against Michael, and you are far from the last."

"Ingrid was ah good person," Ivan says slowly. "Inga never understood. I wasn't in time tah sthap it. But she didn' deserve it. She taught kids. She never 'urt no one. She couldn' 'ave, even if she wanted to. She wasn' like us. She was special."

"Everyone's fucking special," Luke swears.

Ivan hits him, curled fists hard and huge as medicine balls.

Any half-sealed cut the bat caused opens again. The ringing pain shatters back into his skull. Luke blinks, trying not to pass out again. He spits a messy trail of blood across the dirt floor. The binds are still tight. Too fucking tight.

"I gave yah ah chance. Tell me how tah find yer brother," Ivan grits, teeth clenched hard. "An' if yah don't, I'll 'it yah, again. And again. Till that pretty head's nothin' but ah spilled can ah tomaatoes."

Luke's jaw feels as though it's slid out of place. He just manages to work his tongue. "What would Ingrid say then?"

Ivan's fist tightens. "Ingrid's dead."

He punches him again. The other side this time. Luke groans, letting a tooth slip out of his lips, pathetically drooling to the dirt floor. His ear is ringing. There's enough blood slipping down his face to feel each pound of his pulse in it.

A prayer tempts in his throat, but he swallows it along with half a cup of blood. He grits what's left of his teeth. Ivan raises his fist again.

There's only one thing left to try. And god he's going to fucking regret this.

Luke shoves his body forward, tipping the chair close enough to reach. His teeth close on Ivan's arm. Hard. Ivan yells out in surprise. He shoves him off. But Luke doesn't let go, tearing a mouthful of flesh free.

He rocks back, spits the flesh as hard as he can across the basement, and braces.

Suddenly, the basement feels much smaller. Heavy breathing in front of him deepens, hardens. Teeth grit, chattering furiously together. Feet grind into the dirt and Ivan changes. The smoke fills his eyes, his face goes purple with fury, he opens his lips, and roars.

It's loud enough to shake the stones around them, and he swings at Luke before it's silenced. The blow hits his shoulder hard enough to throw the chair ten feet, smashing it against the stone wall. Luke tries to focus, body collapsed with the ruins of the chair on the dirt floor, tries as hard as he fucking can not to faint from pain and impact. He has to move. Now. It doesn't matter that his shoulder is dislocated and feels like someone's wedged a railroad spike inside it.

He tugs free of the ruins, supporting himself on the one elbow that's working. A hand closes around his neck before he can stand. It's lifting him instantly, impossibly high, and throwing him again with a cry. He thuds into the opposite wall, wind shattering out of his lungs, bloody head knocking against the wall with a thwack. He feels something crack. A rib, likely. But it doesn't matter. Not yet. Not now. He stands, back leaning heavy on the stone.

Ivan's swinging again. Luke dodges. The fist shatters deep into the stone wall behind him. Luke slams his eyes shut, avoiding the shards of stone and cement. His hand scrambles around the bit of wood still tied to his wrist, and Luke swings.

The wood hits home, driving straight through Ivan's left eye.

The berserker roars, fury ripping out of him as he falls back, hands pawing at his face. Luke tries to get away while he can, dragging himself as well as he can across the floor, towards the stairs, towards escape.

A meaty hand closes on his dislocated shoulder. It squeezes hard and Luke screams.

 

The glass shatters around Castiel's body, his face hidden behind his protected forearms. He hits the snowy street all at once, rolling heavy and clumsy. The cold slices back around, blowing snow in his hair, his eyes. He staggers to his feet, looking around quickly. The minivan isn't too far, ten meters? Jesus why did he park it so far away?

Noise floods onto the street. There's scrambling behind him, cries, glass breaking, feet rushing. He doesn't look. He hurries towards the car. His cheek is bleeding. That's alright. His eyebrow too. No problem. He holds the cricket bat as tightly as he can. The steps are close behind him, running, panting, closer. Too close.

Castiel spins, swinging as hard as he can. He gets Steven clean across the face, staggering him back hardly two steps. There's more of them. Many more. They're creeping out of the other darkened buildings, out of the fields, out of the dark. Shadows fill the street in hunched wild shapes. Dozens. More. Smears of hulking black against the pale luminary of the snow. Castiel gasps for breathe, cold scrambling down his throat as his air steams in the night.

Steven's smoke filled eyes gaze back at him, mouth hanging on a furious cry. Castiel swings again. This time Steven's head gives, caving in just over his ear. But he only slows. He doesn't stop. There are more, so many more. And they're close, too damn close. He doesn't think he can make it, but he's sure as hell going to try. He turns to run and suddenly there's a warm chest in front of his.

"Close your eyes," Dean commands.

White shatters through the basement. Luke just manages to turn away, shoving his busted face deep into his arm. The light fades after a second, maybe two, leaving behind a smell like burnt pork. He hears gutted groans coming from the floor. Luke pulls his face free. There's a hand on his shoulder. The good one.

"Hold on," Sam's voice says.

The last thing Luke sees is Ivan, hands dumbly feeling at where his eyes used to be, and then things get... strange.

The world sucks away as though someone's pulled it like a cloth from a table. It feels as though someone is trying to suck his entire body through a plastic straw, starting from the top of his head, and their succeeding. They suck him all the way in. Then they blow. He comes squeezing out again all at once. The world slaps down, unfurled once more and suddenly he's standing on a snowy road.

Luke gasps, staggering to stay on his feet, and failing. He falls, but slow enough to control it, sitting down heavily on the ground. They must be outside. He can feel the freezing cold against the pulp of his face, and it might feel good, if it weren't cold enough for his blood to be freezing into something solid and crystalline already.

"Luke," he hears a voice call, concerned. Shockingly.

He can just see through the swelling of his eyes. They are outside, in the street in front of the shops. There's Castiel, kneeling in front of him, staring at his face with those impossibly hopeful blue eyes. There's legs behind him. Dean. Most likely. He can feel Sam standing firm behind him. There's other figures in the street too, lots of them. Some are lying still on the ground, others beginning to shift where they've fallen.

"Fix him," Castiel says, voice hard, demanding.

Luke spits a mouthful of blood across the snow. His shoulder hangs limp and useless, tendrils of pain tightening and loosening under the skin.

He grits his teeth. "Do it."

Sam's hand lands softly on his shoulder, turning him just enough.

"Sam--" Dean's voice suddenly interrupts. He looks serious. Even afraid.

"What else are we supposed to do?" Sam asks. "What else, Dean?"

Luke gazes back at Dean's face, evaluating. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Sam answer for him. Two fingers press to his sticky forehead.

Luke blinks. The pain's gone. Like waking from a dream. He twists his arm, waiting for the stab of agony. But there is none. Strange. He didn't even feel it pop back into place. He runs his tongue experimentally around his mouth. His tooth is back where it ought to be.

He glances up at Sam, frowning as he stands. "Thanks."

Castiel has a hand on his shoulder, staring back into his face with vivid concern. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," Luke shrugs.

The Berserkers are beginning to crawl upright all down the street, eyes scalded away, fury mounting, blindingly scrambling to their feet.

Luke thinks of Ivan rolling on that dirt floor, fingers tracing his empty eye sockets. He thinks of his voice, hardened with grief. _"She was special."_

He grits his teeth, spinning on them, glaring at Sam's darkened face. "Where the fuck were you?"

"Something came up," Dean says.

"Like hell it did," Luke snarls. "If you hunt with someone you have their back, do you understand me? If you hunt alone, you know your alone, but don't you ever, _ever_  say you are there for a hunter and leave him with his fucking pants around his ankles. Do you understand me?"

"Hey!" Dean snaps. "You think we're just messing around here, that we went to get fucking milkshakes!?"

"We need to go," Castiel breaks in, watching as the monsters pull themselves towards the sound of their voices. "It's too late. We missed him. We have to go. Now."

"You're right," Sam grips Luke's shoulder before he can speak, and the world tugs apart all over again.

 

 


	7. Cutlery Metaphysics

They get eighty miles, thirty towns, and two hours away before finally coming to a stop. The minivan and truck wait outside a trucker's diner, squished in between Minnesota snowbanks, the wide parking lot and assembled herd of tractor-trailers making the aluminum-sided capsule look even smaller than it is.

Luke leans heavily over his coffee, sipping deep even though it's still too hot. Castiel's staring reverently down into his own, hair still ridiculous from his winter hat. Dean's flipping through his menu with an amused grin. Sam's sitting still. He has been since they got there.

"Well," Luke says. "That went about as well as I expected."

Castiel rolls his eyes across the table. "Very helpful."

Luke shrugs back, holding onto his coffee mug with both hands. He lets the warmth ease into him, steady and comforting, and twists his shoulder slightly under his jacket. He can't seem to stop doing that. It's just so strange, all that pain. Gone. Just like that. He's not exactly sure how he feels about it yet. Sure, pain's a bitch, and the job certainly doesn't get easier when your shoulder's hanging by a thread. But pain is a lesson, and without it, you might get sloppy, do things you shouldn't. Like trust angels who disappear in half a second, leaving you in the lurch with a baseball bat swinging for the side of your skull.

"Where did you go?" Castiel asks sharply. "Luke's right. You said you were with us. Then you weren't. We could have been killed - Luke nearly was."

"Hey," Luke tries, "I had a handle on it."

Dean gives him an immensely disbelieving look.

"We had to check on something," Sam answers.

"What? Were your hot-pockets ready?" Luke sneers.

"There was something wrong upstairs," Dean says. "We thought we caught a glimmer of your brother. We had to follow up. And now we know he was gone before we got there."

Castiel glares down at the table. "A little notice would be nice. A wave. A text?"

Luke looks at Sam. Sam's looking at the table, brow furrowed.

"I still don't understand. How did we miss him?" Castiel continues, "They made it sound like he'd been gone for days."

"Two," Sam confirms quietly. "We missed him by two days."

"How is that even possible?" Castiel exclaims. "The seal in Manhattan was broken the night of the 25th. We left the afternoon of the 26th." Castiel furrows his brow dragging his finger across the table as he evaluates the circumstances. "Even if he left New York right after breaking that seal, that's a twenty-six, thirty hour drive? If we missed him by two days that means he was there on the 26th. That's the same day he broke the seal in Manhattan. How is that possible?"

"Maybe he flew," Luke says. He meets Sam's eyes for a moment. Sam holds his look with something wary behind his stare. 

"Even if he did," Castiel continues, face dark with concern, "the nearest airport was three hours from that town. And the weather was poor. The flight would have been five hours even at a major airport. That's still putting him in town too late."

"It doesn't matter," Dean breaks in firmly, "what matters is we missed him. We're just going to have to try again."

"You missed him," Luke says.

"What's that now?" Dean asks, eyes sharpening.

Luke meets his look firmly. “ _You_ missed him. We said it was strange, a hub town empty of berserkers. We asked if you were sure. You said you were. You said he was there. But he wasn't, was he?"

"Part of him was," Dean snaps.

"Dean--" Sam tries.

"What do you mean, 'part of him'?" Castiel asks.

Sam sighs. He looks strangely tired. "We sensed him, but it wasn't him. It was his blood. It was still fresh on the ground where the seal was opened."

"His and Ingrid's," Luke mutters.

Castiel frowns. "He killed that girl, the berserker's sister, to open the seal. She wasn't any danger to him."

"Not killed: sacrificed," Luke corrects bitterly. "That's what lambs are for, hadn't you heard?"

"But then his blood--"

"Spill innocent blood, spill yours, mix," Dean mutters. "Sacrifice comes in tiers, especially with spells this damn strong.”

Luke focuses on his coffee, the spoon between his fingers swirling the liquid gently, round and round. He can still feel the binds on his wrists, the fear bitter on his tongue. There had been salt on his lips. He must have been crying. He hadn't noticed.

 _“Father- Dad_ , _please_ —”

His hand slips up to the hex bag around his throat, fingers tracing it thoughtlessly. The straight small scar just under his collar bone burns under his shirt. It has been since they entered the town. He hadn't noticed it at first, but, that pain hadn't left when Sam healed him, and it had grown slightly more uncomfortable since.

"Here yah go!" A waitress smiles, sliding a few steaming plates in front of them.

Luke glances blankly down at his own breakfast, Castiel does the same. Dean beams at a pile of pancakes. Sam has nothing.

"Can I get yah 'nything else?" she asks.

"Yeah how about a few slices of that pie back there?" Dean asks, leaning back to gaze after it lustily.

"Which kind, hun? Apple or cherry?"

"Both," Dean grins.

The waitress smiles saying something affirmative as she moves away.

"Which kind?" Dean scoffs. "It's always both. What kind of question is that?"

"You eat?" Luke can't help asking, eyeing Dean's breakfast.

"If we want," Dean answers, snatching up his fork. "And honestly, who wouldn't want? The shit you people do with corn, fucking miraculous."

Castiel doesn't seem ready to eat just yet, frowning at his food. "If you can't tell where Michael is, how will we find him again?"

"Hey, hey," Dean mutters through a mouthful of pancakes. "We can tell, we just missed this one. We know now, what the blood feels like versus the real thing."

"It's stronger than we thought," Sam says quietly. "When he's truly near now, we will know it."

"And what makes you think that we'll ever get close enough for you to 'know it'?" Luke asks. He shovels a bite of eggs into his mouth. He hadn't realized just how hungry he was. Maybe that's something they change to - they touch you and suddenly you're not hungry even if your stomach's empty.

"What do you mean?" Sam asks, heavy brow furrowing.

"I mean, Castiel is exactly right. It should have been impossible for him to get here that quickly," Luke says. "How do we know he hasn't broken three more seals already."

"Well, for one thing I didn't see any white horses or hear all the voices of the unjustly punished holy crying out as one," Dean grumbles.

"He can't open them that quickly," Sam clarifies.

Castiel's turned on his own breakfast. He seems half starved as well. "Why not? He did with these last two."

"It's, uh, it will get... harder. Harder for him," Sam says.

Luke frowns down at his bacon, almost crisped out of any moisture at all. He tries not to think of drawings in a book and skin peeling open, like hidden eyelids lifting open across your body you never knew existed.

"He's changing," Dean says, managing to swallow his syrupy mouthful. "Transformation can take time."

"What's happening to him?" Castiel ask sternly. He looks back at Luke. "What's he doing?"

Luke doesn't look back. "Something very fucking stupid."

"He's making himself a gateway," Sam says. Luke knows he isn't looking at him but it feels as if he is all the same and he wishes he'd stop it.

"What do you mean? Where's he making it?"

"No, no," Dean corrects, twirling his fork, "he's making _himself_  a gateway. That's how being the lamb, the opener of the seals, works. Each seal he opens, he changes, he gets closer to opening The Way."

"'The Way'?" Castiel asks. "I don't understand."

Sam spreads his hands out on the table, voice kind and low. "Here," he lays out his unused silverware, all three rowed like lines in a notebook, knife, fork, spoon. "Heaven," he points to the spoon, "earth," the fork, "and hell," the knife. "They don't exist on the same plane of reality."

Castiel frowns at the cutlery. "I see..."

"It's hard to move between reality planes. Very hard," Sam continues, running a finger down the empty horizontal space between the hell-knife and the earth-fork. "There are rules. Strict ones. And they've been around for a _very_ long time. I'm sure you know some of them for demons, know what limits their passage."

"They came come to earth to finish a deal, or if they're summoned," Castiel tries. "But it seems some can get up other ways."

"Not many," Dean says, "or else you'd be up to your knees in possessed pre-teen vomit, trust me."

"There's a limit," Sam says. "Think about it like," he glances around the table and suddenly grabs the straw out of his water. "Think about it like a straw."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "... A straw?"

"Shut up," Sam grumbles. "What I mean is there's only so much room. Actually, think of it like a slide. Yeah, slide's better. A tube slide." He lays the straw down, bridging the gap between the knife and the fork. "In order to get between planes you have to go down the slide, but anyone who goes down still has a safety line, a kind of rope tied around their waist that goes right back up the slide behind them."

Luke feels the hex-bag suddenly heavy against his chest. He ignores it.

"Jesus," Dean curses quietly, taking another gargantuan bite, "if you told me ten thousand years ago we'd be giving hunters a lecture in trans-dimensional quantum travel with restaurant depot cutlery in a fucking Minnesota diner, well, lets just say I'd either punch you into the renaissance or laugh my ass off for the next century and I'm not sure which."

"Here's that pie, hun," the waitress says, stepping up to slide it in front of him before vanishing again.

"Then again," Dean smiles at the pie. "Maybe there are some upsides."

"Anyway," Sam says with emphasis, "anyone who goes down the slide needs a rope, and that rope stops them from getting too far, across this middle plane and into the next."

"So, angels can't go to hell and demons can't go to heaven?" Cas asks.

Luke glances up.

"Not without a long fucking rope," Dean says, "and they don't make ropes that long downstairs, only we get that equipment, and trust me, it doesn't get much exercise."

Sam focuses very firmly on the cutlery. Luke stares at him for a moment and then turns back to his own dry breakfast.

"Why don't you, or they, just cut the ropes?" Castiel asks.

Dean coughs hard, slapping his chest as a bit of flaky crust goes down wrong.

Castiel glances at him. "What's wrong? Then you could go wherever you wanted. Right?"

Sam smiles kindly. "They're not so much ropes... more like umbilical cords."

"Ugh, gross man," Dean grimaces, "not cool."

"Shut up," Sam repeats. He focuses on Castiel. "If we cut them we cut off heaven, or the daemons cut off hell. We can't get back and the strength we have is severed."

"So you what? Become human?"

Dean shivers dramatically across the laminated table-top.

"Sort of," Sam tries. "Not human, but not what we were either."

"Fuck umbilical cords," Dean says sternly, pointing with his cherry-smeared fork. "It's like bungie-jumping okay? And imagine someone slicing off that cord. Suddenly no bounce back. Suddenly a lot of fucking ground."

"You fall," Luke clarifies.

"Like fucking rocks," Dean affirms.

"I didn't know demons could fall," Castiel muses quietly.

"Oh they can't," Dean laughs. "Not so much bungies as chains in their case."

"That sounds painful..." Castiel murmurs.

"I don't know," Dean shrugs. "Some people like chains, if you know what I'm saying."

"But Michael..." Castiel pulls them back.

"Right," Sam continues, adjusting the straw on the table. "So, people head down the slide, with their ropes attached, right?"

"Right," Castiel affirms, focusing sternly.

"Well, only so many people can fit down a slide at once. Think about it, with all those ropes, bungies, whatever, clogging up the slide there's not much room for others to get down."

"So there's a limit, to how many angels or demons can be on earth?"

"Or else the 'slide'," Dean air quotes dramatically, "is too jammed and no one can get back up or slide down.”

"The slide has a few openings on earth, doors, small ones," Sam says, "that's how we got down, how a few angels can make it to earth at a time. It's how demons can make it up. But an apocalypse means more. Lots more. All of them. And to fit all of heaven and hell onto to earth, you need a much larger door."

_"We will become the passage, and through us will come salvation, paradise, and an end to this wretched world. All this loss. All this sin. It will end. Finally. Forever.”_

Luke hears the voice piercing his mind. He shuts his eyes quickly, trying to shove it away.

_Dark blue eyes look down at him, deep voice echoing. "Don't you want paradise, Luke? Don't you want to find her again? She's waiting for us. Just beyond that veil, in a dress of white, arms open to us all. I know she is. We just need to find her.”_

"That's what he's opening?" Castiel asks. "A door?"

"It's what he's becoming," Sam says seriously. "Each sacrifice he makes, each seal he opens, it's changing him, changing him into a bridge between worlds. That's the spell of the seals. The seals were put in place to hold that door shut millions, trillions of years ago, when the universe started to come together at the seams and chaos slipped away. Michaels's breaking them open again. Each time he spills another's blood he bridges the gap to hell, and each time he spills his own he bridges the gap to heaven. A seal shatters. And when they all go, heaven and hell will pour into the world, through him."

Castiel stares at his breakfast quietly for a moment. Luke's suddenly feeling very close and uncomfortable in that damn booth, his eggs already cold under his fork. He's not hungry any more.

"So, we can catch him again. He has to rest between seals? Why?" Castiel asks.

Dean snorts out a laugh. "Because turning your body into a fucking doorknob for the legions of worlds hurts like a bitch."

"Get out," Luke says suddenly, turning to Sam.

"What?" Sam asks, staring dumbly back from the seat next to him in the booth.

"Get, out," Luke shoves at his shoulder, and it feels so normal, so real and solid under the coat he's still wearing, his own coat, it just makes him more furious.

Sam slips out of the booth, taking the hint, and Luke stands, walking quickly away.

"Where are you going?" Castiel calls to his back.

"To fucking breathe," Luke snaps back.

The door gives easily under his hands and he steps out with a rush. The air is still freezing, cold enough to be a shock, cold enough to feel amazing.

He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breathe of it, trying to quiet the whispers in his mind, push away the sound of a deep voice so commanding you'd almost believe it could move mountains, the feeling of cold bark under his tiny hands as a shaking woman's voice whispered for him to stay quiet, to stay still no matter what. The sight of Michael's younger eyes so terrified and then so, so angry. The smell of his own flesh cooking.

He breathes, and the cold starts to silence the rest. He leans back against the aluminum wall of the diner. Out in front, beyond the tiny parking lot and the hulking shapes of tractor-trailers, there's little else but white. The plains spread out, snow too deep to show even the tallest heads of wheat or grass. The electrical lines trace two lines far off through them and out of sight. It's a bright day. The sky's a hard blue, all the deeper for it's contrast against the snow.

Luke's hand slips into his jacket, fumbling around for a minute before finding a pack of cigarettes. He tugs one free and places it between his lips.

"Those will kill you, you know?" a calm voice says. He doesn't look over. He's not surprised to hear it.

"I heard," Luke returns, reaching into the warmth of his pocket for his lighter.

Sam steps closer, half facing him. "You really shouldn't. Bad habit."

Luke laughs, the cigarette still in his teeth. He lights it, sucking in thickly and letting it go again with a deep sigh, eyes slipping shut once. The smoke twirls against the cold air, wrapped around the steam of his breath.

"It's not a habit," he says.

Sam's smiling. "Social smoker?"

Luke doesn't smile. "That's funny."

He glances over. Sam's looking past Luke, to the fields behind, almost reflective.

"Where did you go?" Luke asks finally.

"We told you, we had to check on something," Sam answers. His eyes drift down to the snow under their feet.

"Right," Luke watches him. "Check on something. Was it important?"

Sam gives him a withering look. "Yes. It was important."

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised, huh?" Luke says. There's a hardness to his voice, tongue sharp, and he doesn't try to dull it. "It's not like you've ever shown up when you said you would before. You know I preferred being let down by you when you were still imaginary."

Sam's jaw tightens noticeable. "You're angry, I understand that."

"No, I'm not angry Sam," Luke sneers, "just disappointed."

"Real cute. Look, we should have let you know we were leaving. But we just couldn't. It won't happen again."

"Why couldn't you let us know?" Luke asks. "I thought you just had to check on something."

"There were other pressures." Sam still won't look at him.

"What pressures? I thought you were on a heavenly mission. What could pressure you?"

"Time," Sam returns sharply, glaring back at him.

Luke holds his gaze. "Why was Dean afraid? Why didn't he want you to heal me?"

"He thinks your a dick," Sam returns easily.

The wind picks up for a moment, sending a spiral of snow so cold it's nothing more than dust, swirling in a elegant spiral across the parking lot.

"I can recognize the face of something chased, you know," Luke says. "I see it every day in the mirror looking back at me." He watches him for a quiet moment. "What's chasing you, Sam?"

"It doesn't matter," Sam avoids. "It doesn't change anything. And anyways, you haven't asked yet where we're headed next, yet."

Luke can't help letting out a short laugh. "What the hell makes you think I am going to ask that?"

"Because nothing's changed," Sam says simply. "Michael's still out there, the seals are still opening, the world's still ending."

"I told you, what the world wants to do with itself is none of my business."

"But the world's not doing this to itself. It's not jumping off some metaphysical cliff. Michael's pushing it. And your father's memory is pushing him right along with it."

"The world made Michael, and the world made my father. Them ending it might be patricide, but that's nothing novel." He focuses on his cigarette, pulling it free and tapping the ash down to the crunching snow under their feet. He watches it spiral down, floating and twirling.

"You know what it's going to do to him," Sam says softly. "You know this will rip him apart at seams most people don't know they have."

"And why shouldn't I let it?" Luke suddenly snaps, turning on him. "I spent _five_  earth years down there watching things play with my seams, and trust me, I didn't know some of them existed either. But I learned. I was taught very well exactly how much of a person can break. It was a _very_  thorough education." He takes a step closer, glaring back at Sam's frowning eyes. “Five years on earth isn't the same as five years downstairs. Do you have any idea how long I was down there for?"

Sam looks directly back at him. “Seven hundred, thirty-one years, three months, sixteen days, four hours, and twenty-seven minutes.”

Luke stares back at him. It takes him a moment to open his mouth again with a disbelieving laugh. "What, no seconds?"

"Stepping through the door between worlds warps time slightly. So, I can't be that exact--"

"Alright, jesus-christ," Luke swears, taking another, longer drag and falling back a step.

He tilts his head upwards, leaning it heavily on the cheap siding behind him. The sky's furiously bright, almost painful against his eyes, given their similar color.

"I was down there for him," he says finally, firmly.

"I know," Sam answers.

"I was down there because he was an idiot."

"I know."

"Every day," Luke squints into the blue, "every hour, I told myself I was there to stop _this_  from happening, that I was stopping all of this, the seals, the end, the lamb, stopping it in the only way I could. And now it's happening. It didn't make a fucking bit of difference."

He turns his head, looking at Sam. Funny. Out here, in the cold, with the soft wind in his hair like that, and his eyes so sad, so helpless. It could almost be that first dream all over again.

"I ripped myself apart, for him, for the world. Demons held the tools, but I gave them the chance. I made that deal. I kissed that thing on the crossroads. So they chained me up and tore me open. You can't hate a wolf for biting. And I took it, so he, so everyone else, wouldn't have to. And now it's just going to happen. All the same. Despite seven-hundred-thirty-one years. So tell me, angel, why the hell shouldn't I watch Michael, watch the whole world, rip themselves to pieces?"

Sam stares back at him, just over an inch taller. There's a sadness behind his eyes, but something else as well, something so damn hopeful it would almost be naive if it didn't seem so old.

"I heard what you said, down there, with Ivan."

"What? To go fuck himself?" Luke asks.

Sam smiles. "No, the other thing."

"I was just _slightly_  concussed, what with the bat to the face, you might have to remind me."

Sam slips his hands into his pockets. "Oh, something about, 'everyone's fucking special'."

"Oh, that," Luke says. "Well, no one ever said I wasn't good at getting myself punched in the face."

"You sounded sarcastic," Sam says.

"Yeah, no shit."

"But you meant it."

Luke glances at him. The cigarette's almost gone, warmth tempting at the edges of his lips.

"You sounded sarcastic," Sam says, "I mean, you do most of the time. But you meant it. That's the thing, you act like you don't care, and why should you care? Why would anyone spend seven-hundred years being tore apart slowly by the seams for a world that's only hurt them, for a brother who's only hated them? There's no reason. But you did. And that's pretty amazing."

"Idiotic," Luke clarifies.

"Brave," Sam corrects, and he does it so firmly Luke can't seem to answer. "Very, impossibly, brave."

Sam's mouth smiles gently. The cold wind knocks a few strands of his hair into his eyes. "You really do think everyone's fucking special. No matter how much you want to pretend you don't. You can't help it."

"I think you have me confused with the naive trench-coat inside eating waffles," Luke returns.

"No," Sam says, "Castiel has his own faith, his own gifts. He manages to see a brightness in everyone. He will always protect that brightness. But you're different. You see the darkness in everyone. And you value it, you fight for it, all the same. Because that's the truth you've known. That's freedom. The dark, and the light, that's what makes everyone so fucking special."

Luke tugs his eyes away from Sam's. He takes the last thick drag of his cigarette. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I've wised up. A few centuries of hell will do that sort of thing to you."

Sam's expression doesn't change. The small smile doesn't shift. He simply sighs, leaning back on his heels and gazing off over his shoulder again. "Well, be that as it may. Castiel's still with us. He's still fighting for the brightness, and he's not going to stop until it's over."

Luke tosses his cigarette down to the snow, watching as it lets it's last strands of smoke drift up into the sky. He pushes his stiff fingers back into the warmth of his pockets. "Idiotic."

Sam smiles. "Brave."

Luke levels a look. "Alright. So, where are we heading?"

"Michigan."

"Great," Luke lets his head bang back against the wall.

"What? Don't like Michigan?"

"No," Luke says. "What sort of state names a town Kalamazoo?"

Castiel peers out the diner window, frost still clinging to the corners. He can't see Luke and Sam. It would feel a little more comforting if he could. Luke had been suspicious of the angels, and it's not that Castiel hadn't, he'd just... maybe he'd wanted a particular image a little too strongly. Maybe it would be nice to meet a mythical creature that felt like picture books and didn't want to harvest his liver for it's young just once. But that was foolish. He'll have to be more careful.

"So, Michigan?" he confirms.

"That's right," Dean answers. "Third Seal. Famine. Wendigo country."

"Lucky us," Castiel frowns.

Dean's elbow knocks against his arm for the fifth time in two minutes as he shovels in another bite. Castiel flinches.

"Can you move, please?" he asks roughly.

"Whut?" Dean asks, mouth still full of lard-thick crust and canned cherries.

His elbow hits him again. Castiel shoves a shoulder back.

" 'ey!" Dean complains. "I almost dropped my fork."

"Move, please," Castiel reiterates. "The other side is free now. We look ridiculous."

Dean snorts, grumbling as he pushes his plates across the table and follows them, collapsing back into the booth on the opposite side. "Jesus, sensitive much?" He grins. "What? You afraid people will think we're a couple?"

Castiel stares firmly back at him. "No. Although in this part of the country that wouldn't be the best assumption to invite."

"Don't worry, no one's making it," Dean snorts. "I'm way out of your league."

Castiel opens his mouth to protest and then shuts it quickly. He's not arguing with an angel whose cheeks are three-times the size they should be with truck-stop-diner pie and a Metallica shirt on under Castiel's jacket.

"I mean," Dean continues, taking another bite even though he has five in his mouth he hasn't swallowed yet, "I'm like a Marlon Brando right.  _On the Waterfront_  Brando, not creeper Paris Brando. Top cut sirloin with raw sexual magnetism and everyone knows it. It's indisputable. And your more like... Anthony Perkins."

"... I'm _Psycho_?”

"Not in a bad way," Dean shrugs, "just in that sort of, dark hair, nice eyes, I might keep taxidermy because the world's cruel to me, and dead birds- don't laugh at my shoes sort of way."

"Something wrong with my shoes?"

Dean grins. "I didn't say that."

Castiel eyes him. "You certainly know a lot about human narrative."

"We don't get much silver-screen up stairs. And what can I say, you Crawlers weave a good yarn. Must be a short-life span thing, desperate the collect and communicate something that lasts before the end, or something like that. But it's almost always the same story. And I don't see mayflies making any little hollywoods, so maybe I'm off base there."

Castiel changes the subject vehemently before that ramble has anytime to sink in.

"How long do we have before Michael moves for the next seal?"

Dean shrugs. "My guess, a week?"

"Your guess?" Castiel scoffs. "You just get more and more comforting, you know that?"

"I was pretty comforting back across that state-line saving your ass. Again. You're welcome by the way," Dean says, focusing on his busy fork.

"Maybe you wouldn't have had to 'save my ass' if you hadn't disappeared in the first place," Castiel grumbles. "I still can't believe we missed him..."

"Ah well," Dean says, "only two down, we've still got five tries. Those are pretty good odds."

"Would you bet on us?" Castiel asks.

Dean considers. "Yeah, yeah I think so."

"Why?"

"Who can resist an underdog?"

Castiel frowns. "Since when is heaven an underdog?"

"Alright fine, let's settle for good triumphing over evil then. Or even better conquering zealots. That's always a nice bet."

Castiel doesn't answer. He makes himself pick up his fork, eating a few bites. He'll regret it later if he doesn't.

"You can track, right?" Dean asks, frowning across the table.

"What?" Castiel catches.

"You can track. Like animals? Shit like that?"

Castiel gazes across the table, crossing his arms over his chest. "Are you trying to ask me if I know how to hunt wendigos?"

Dean looks back. "Do you?"

Castiel can't help snapping, "Yes! I know how to hunt wendigos."

"Just asking, jesus, touchy," Dean returns to the lingering remains of his food, "too damn touchy man."

Castiel narrows his eyes at him. "How many angels fit through this door?"

"What's that?" Dean asks, looking up.

"This door, slide, Way, whatever, the passage Sam was describing. He said that only so many angels could fit through at a time. How many is that?"

Dean shrugs. "I don't know, five, maybe six? A few more each time a seal opens."

"So, where the other ones?"

"What?"

"Why aren't they here?"

Dean frowns. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Castiel watches him carefully. "End of the world seems pretty important. You said you were sent here to find us, to stop it. So, where are the other angels? It seems like maybe we could use some more help."

"Hey--" Dean starts, "Sammy and I can handle ourselves alright. Trust me. We've been through worse. We missed one, we learn, we move on. We don't need help."

"It just seems strange. If this is the main problem at hand why aren't the other angels helping?"

Dean turns back to his breakfast, smearing a last bite of apple pie in the left over syrup from his pancakes. "Who says they aren't?"

"Are they?" Castiel presses.

"Of course," Dean answers. He pops the bite between his lips.

"So, where are they?"

"What," Dean grins, "you think you're the only path we're pursuing?"

"You made it sound that way."

"Well, it's not, alright. We're on it. Heaven's just checking all the boxes. It's thorough like that."

Castiel continues to watch him. Funny. He thought anything that powerful would be better at lying. Dean was better at it than his brother. But neither were very good. Maybe that should be comforting. Maybe they lacked practice.

If only he knew what part of it was a lie.

"Eat up," Dean grins, kicking at his feet like a five year old under the table. "A good breakfast is the first step to saving the world."

 


	8. Day Hike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To celebrate hitting our third seal, have a mix!
> 
> http://8tracks.com/fortinbrasftw/upon-this-altar-part-1

"Happy birthday."

Luke turns. His young eyes have to look up two feet to see the speaker's face. It's the same as always: longish hair, thin lips that can smile so easily, eyes that always seen a little worried. He looks like some knight in a camelot story, just missing the shield and breastplate. Luke wonders if that's how he invented him, too much time staring at books.

"Are you having a good birthday?"

"It's not so great," Luke answers, looking away.

They're in the motel room. He knows they aren't really. He knows he's only sleeping. But as far as his senses are concerned, he's sitting on the plastic feeling comforter-cover over the cheap bedspread, with a rather sticky carpet under his toes and the smell of mildew all around.

"I don't know," his companion shrugs. "Ten sounds like a pretty good birthday. Double digits. That’s exciting, right?"

Luke looks up to where he's standing by the bed. "How old are you?"

"Older than ten,” the face smiles.

"Yeah, I guessed that," Luke returns. He swings his feet, just too short to touch the floor fully. He looks over, Michael's body isn't breathing steadily under the covers of the other bed, in fact it isn't there at all.

"I'm dreaming."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"No."

Luke rolls his hand over. There should be a long fresh slice across it from two nights ago when the harpy caught him before Michael pulled him back. But it isn't there. Definitely dreaming.

"Do you know where dad is?"

"No.”

"I guess that makes sense. I read somewhere that everyone in dreams is just a version of you, so since I don't know, you don't know, right?"

"I'm sorry I don't know. But I have a feeling he's safe."

"He went to go find some book. Last night. I don't think he remembered that todays was… it doesn’t matter.”

His companion doesn't seem to have anything to say to that.

"Michael went to the library with me. It's a pretty good one here, they don't mind if you sit with the grown-up books, so long’s your quiet. He told the woman behind the desk that it was my birthday. They gave me a sheet of stickers. But they were out of the 'boy' stickers, so they gave me ponies instead. Why do ponies have to be girl stickers anyways? Everyone can ride ponies.”

"I don't know," the voice answers, “seems silly.”

"Stickers are stupid."

He hears the voice beside him laugh a little.

"They are," he insists. "What do you do with them?"

"Stick?" the voice shrugs.

Luke smiles just a touch. "Yeah, but where? It's not like I can put them on anything here. We just leave. Wherever we go, we always leave. Dad won't let me put them in the car. I don't have a skateboard, or a lunchbox, or anything... I don't have anything. I've got my gun, and my knife. Maybe Michael and I should put pony stickers on our knives. Dad would love that."

"I think you should put them wherever you want to put them," the voice said.

"I don't like birthdays," Luke mutters, hardly hearing him. "It's just an excuse to expect a little more out of things. And it's stupid. Why celebrate being born? It's not like it's anything special. It just happens. I bet most people wished it didn't."

"I'm glad you have a birthday," the voice says.

"I'm not.”

It's quiet for a moment.

"Well," the voice sighs suddenly, all that height kneeling down to look him in the eyes.

Luke stares back. His eyes are brown. "Well what?"

"If you don't want your birthday that must mean you don't want your present."

He can't help feeling a small thrill of excitement. He tries to smother it down again. "You can't give me anything. This is just a dream."

"Let's just see about that, huh?" All the height stands again.

He puts a hand on Luke’s small shoulder. "Ready?"

Luke frowns in concern. "Uh, sure."

There's a strange feeling in the room all at once. It’s as if the air inside of it is multiplied ten fold, pushing tight, close, and then, suddenly: it's gone. All of it.

Luke blinks. "... Whoa."

It's white. Everything. Anything. White. Except the sky…

Up above there are more colors than he knew the sky could be: colors that bleed and pour, like rivers against the speckled black of space.

Luke takes a step back, turning his head upwards. A hand catches his shoulder. "Stay close," the warm voice says. "If you go too far you'll start to get cold."

"I won't get cold." Luke’s smiling. He doesn't know when he started. "You don't get cold in dreams." He doesn't move away all the same. It feels nice standing next to him. Safe.

"Pretty, huh?" the voice smiles.

He's still taking it in. The colors of the sky are so vast, chasing each other through the void. Their luminance is shedding down to the white below, bathing all that white in a soft glow of saturation. The landscape, even without the sky above it, is miraculous, haunting. The shapes are soft and hard all at once. Impossible. Beautiful.

"Where's this?" Luke asks. He knows it's a stupid question. It's nowhere. It's just a dream.

"North."

Luke's tempted to roll his eyes but he can't quite seem to. It's quiet here. He's not sure he's ever heard anything so quite.

"I wish mom was here."

The body next to his is warm. "I know."

Luke twists, looking up at his companion suddenly. "Hey—“

The fairy-tale face turns. "Hey, what?"

Luke considers him for a moment. "What's your name?"

The face stares down at him. Finally, he opens his lips again, "Sam."

Luke smiles. "Thanks, Sam."

Sam smiles back. "Happy birthday, Luke.

“—Luke… Luke!"

There's a hand on his shoulder, giving him a good firm shake.

Luke's eyes open. It's bright, very bright. There's sunlight shoving through the windscreen of the truck and a hand treating his coat with equal aggression.

Luke blinks with a grunt. "Alright, alright."

He urges the sleep out of his head, making his body sit up, think properly again. Castiel is standing by the truck, looking around them at the surrounding scenery. Luke follows suit.

There's still snow. Lots of it. But it feels warmer, maybe even over twenty degrees. They've stopped in a salt-stained parking lot. There's a store in a log-cabin style building hulking behind them. In front is a long still plane of white, a smaller lake, with a road along one side and heavy pines standing like sentinels on all others. Michigan. Definitely Michigan.

"Where’re the angels?"

"Inside," Castiel says, "getting supplies."

Luke turns suddenly, eyeing the "Rick's-Outdoor-Supply" sign beside the parking lot.

"You sent angels to get camping supplies?"

Castiel's tone hardens. "I wanted to see you, without them."

"How the hell should they know what to buy?" Luke asks standing and shutting the truck door behind him. "We'll probably end up looking like a fucking SkyMall rolling through deep woods. And how do they pay for things? Jedi mind-tricks?”

"I said I wanted to talk to you," Castiel repeats firmly.

"Aren't you?" Luke heads towards the store.

Castiel catches his arm.

"They're lying to us. The angels."

"That's right. Good for you. Now can we-" he moves to pull his arm free. Castiel does't let it go.

"What are they lying about?"

"I don't know," Luke shrugs, "probably quite a bit."

Castiel glares. "It's a little difficult for me to guess what might be off about their story without _knowing_ the full story. I have no idea what part of this is real, about Michael, about our father--"

Luke tugs away, and this time he pulls hard enough to make it.

"I deserve to know," Castiel calls at his back. "They are my family too. He's not just your brother."

Luke slows, stopping just a foot from the short steps that lead into the store. "I know that."

"You don't act as though you know it,” Castiel calls. “You act as though this is your life, and I'm an unfortunate second-hand victim. But it's my life as well, and I deserve to know. What happened to our father? Why is Michael doing this? What happened between you two?"

Luke feels the air press against his cheeks. The sun pleasant on his back, but the cold is still there, creeping into the edges of his fingers.

"Not now.” He takes two steps up the stairs and heads into the shop.

The smell of outdoor retail is instantly smarmy around him, all Gortex, jerky, and polished wooden countertops. He's hardly a meter inside when he hears the door swing again and Castiel hurry in after him.

There's a few other customers easing around the aisles, under the bright colors of hanging kayaks and suspended tents that lined the ceiling.

"No Dean," Luke hears a tired voice say. He follows the sound.

"Oh come on! They said we needed some winter stuff."

"You look like an asshole."

"A badass asshole," Dean corrects. "Hey - Cas, hey, huh? Pretty good, right?"

Luke stares as Castiel comes to a stop next to him. He's suddenly having flashbacks to a 1991 ski-trip special of Saved By the Bell.

"Dear Christ," Luke mutters.

"Yeah, I think he'd like it to," Dean grins. He's looking back at them from behind yellow Oaklies, a white headband pushing his hair back and straight up. The jacket is at least three kinds of neon and... belted?

"Huh, Cas?" Dean pushes, striking half a post with his hands on the collar and a Zoolander expression on his face.

Castiel stares. "You look like a Japanese toothpaste commercial."

Luke snorts down a laugh.

Dean turns up his chin. "Yeah, well joke’s on you smart-ass because I don't even need toothpaste."

“I, what--?" Castiel tries.

"It's not very subtle," Luke picks up.

"Thank you," Sam sighs.

"Who gives a shit about subtle?"

"Anyone who doesn't want their kidneys used as wendigo sucking-candies," Luke answers.

"Please," Dean scoffs. "I'd like to see a wendigo try to get at my kidneys."

"Do you even have kidneys?" asks Castiel.

"I have the _best_ kidneys," Dean returns proudly.

"Alright, I think we can stop the kidney bragging," Sam interrupts. "Put the coat back, Dean."

Dean pouts, shrugging the thing off with quick angry motions. "Just trying to 'take criticism', jesus, I find one thing I like--"

"It doesn't matter now," Luke says. "We're going into the woods, not walking around some half-horse town. You don't need to look normal."

"Then--?" Dean asks, holding up the coat again.

"No," all three of them say at once.

Dean turns back to put the rest of the outfit away, making mocking noises to himself that could be mimicking any one of them.

"We'll need a few things," Luke says, glancing around. "I don't keep camping equipment on me. It takes up space, easier to just buy new."

"So, what do you need?" Sam asks.

"Tents," Luke continues. "I'm assuming two," he glances at Castiel who nods.

"Food, light-weight. I have a sleeping bag," Castiel adds.

"Same," Luke answers, turning to a nearby shelf. "And--" He lifts up a small propane canister and chucks it up and down in his hand. “Flammables.”

"Right," Sam answers.

By the time they get to the counter they have everything they need, and then some. Luke had been careful not to weigh down the packs too much, until he remembered who they were traveling with and decided ten extra propane canisters, boot ice-spikes, and a waterproof case for the bottom of the backpack wouldn't be amiss.

They drop everything off heavily on the countertop. A twenty-something young man with heavy hair glances up. "Those too?"

Dean’s still wearing the sunglasses.

"Yes," Dean answers firmly.

The man begins running his scanner over the merchandise, each item echoing with a gentle electronic "beep".

"You guys going after that girl?" he says, eyeing the equipment.

"What girl?" Castiel asks.

"Sandy Jones," the cashier answers, glancing up at them from under his hair, “she went missing, two nights ago."

Castiel frowns. "From here? How old is she?"

"Fifteen," he answers. "Everyone from two towns round has been looking. She was out, camping with a few friends. But they came down on Monday, said she was walking behind them, on their way back, and then just... poof. Gone."

"Does that sort of thing happen often around here?" Luke asks.

The scanner moves over energy bars. Beep. Beep.

"Sometimes, but not really like this," he replies. "People will go up into the woods, not come down. Rangers will find tents all shredded, camp sites trashed. Animals. That sort of thing. People aren't careful I guess, don't tie their food up, all that."

Castiel glances at Luke, he meets his look.

"But this is different, yah know. I mean she was out with friends, and none of them saw anything. Wasn't animals. She was just gone. That's why they're out looking, seems like she just got away from the group somehow. Lost."

"Did you know her?" Castiel asks.

"Knew her sister," he answers. "In high-school. Small towns, you know how it is."

"And people are out looking for her?"

"Pretty much half the town. You're lucky we still have equipment in stock. State Police said they would take care of it, said people shouldn't go out looking. But what are they supposed to do? People want to help. And they're locals. They know what they're doing."

"Where did she go missing?" Luke asks.

"Eagle Peak," the cashier answers. "They were doing a winter trek up that way for the weekend."

"Do you have a map?"

"Sure," he bends down, rummaging behind the desk, grabbing one and scanning it with the rest. "Almost the last one. Be careful. If you're not experienced it's easy to get into trouble out that way in the winter. It's pretty far from anything."

"We will be," Luke answers.

"I hope you find her. Or someone does. My dad..." he trails off.

"Your dad what?" Luke presses.

"It's just... it's been two days. It was cold last night."

Castiel nods. "Right."

The kid scans the last item. "That's two-thousand five-hundred and seventy-one, thirteen."

Luke hands him a card.

The kid looks back at him. "Thomas Paine?"

"That's right."

He slides the card neatly.

They regroup outside, shoving all the equipment into fresh backpacks within the sliding doors of Castiel's ridiculous mini-van.

"It sounds like we found our sacrifice," Dean notes.

"We're certainly not wrong about the wendigos either," Luke says. "Plenty of ‘animal attacks’ up on that ridge."

Castiel's working his phone quickly in his hand. "This particular region has ten times the deaths from animal attack than any other in the state."

Luke’s always been amazed what people will simply accept as normal if they don't know any better. Ten times the attacks, and who's looking at those stats? Who knows the average number of animal deaths in a Michigan community off the top of their head? No one.

"Many of them are centered around this," Castiel says, holding the map in his free hand, "Eagle Peak."

"Not unexpected," Luke says, opening the plastic bags from the store and jamming some of the jerky sticks into the backpack that still has some room left. "Peaks means caves, hiding places, nice cold storage space for the captured."

"It's not an easy hike," Castiel notes, frowning down at the now opened map in his hands. "It's a good thing we grabbed the ice-spikes."

"We don't need to hike," Dean insists. "Let's just hop on up to the top."

"Dean--" Sam suddenly tries.

"What? It will only take one jump.”

"Tracking doesn't work like that," Castiel says. "And unless you can pinpoint this then I assume you will need us to track something."

Luke glances at Sam. "Well?"

"There's definitely something here, a sense of the seal,” Sam says, "but it's not clear yet. And you're right, we can't pin-point. The peak seems a good place to start."

"How's it look?" Luke asks Castiel.

Castiel runs a careful finger elegantly over the folds of the map. "That depends on where we start."

"Where the girl disappeared," Dean says instantly.

"No," Luke insists, "that's where Michael took her. If he knows he's being followed he wouldn't have let any distinguishable location be right on top of where he needs to be left alone."

"So where then?" Sam asks.

Castiel's ahead of him. "According to the Ranger's records, the most recent 'animal attack' was one week ago, on the northern-slope of the peak."

"How far is that from where the girl was taken?" Sam asks.

Castiel fiddles for another moment. "Mile and a half."

"That sounds about right," Luke nudges two propane canisters into water bottle slots. "Distance?"

"It's not a friendly route," Castiel continues, "especially in winter. It's three miles to where the campsite was attacked, then another mile and half to where Sandy Jones vanished. It's another half mile from there to the more rocky portions of the peak."

Luke swears. Castiel nods seriously. "If we make exceptional time we can manage five miles a day in this season before dark. It's ten now. If we leave soon we might make it to the camp-site before sun-down."

"Why stop at sundown?" Dean asks.

Luke glares at him. "Have you ever hiked a five mile day through three feet of snow and ice-covered rock?"

Dean shrugs. "Doesn't sound too bad."

"Maybe not if you can float," Castiel grumbles, still investigating the map.

"I don't hunt with a clear disadvantage," Luke continues. "Wendigos can see in the dark. We're lacking in that department."

"Yeah well, we're not."

"Great - you'll make excellent look-outs while we get some sleep."

"You seriously think we have time for that? If we miss him again--"

"Hey," Sam breaks in firmly. "Arguing about it isn't saving us any time."

"We do have one advantage," Castiel says, apparently half oblivious to the conversation.

"Yeah, and what's that?" Dean asks sharply.

"It hasn't snowed in over a week here. Tracking won't be a challenge."

"Good." Luke reaches inside the minivan, grabbing a filled pack. He's a little surprised that it managed to get so heavy that quickly. It's at least fifty pounds. He lobs it at Dean who catches it as easily as if it were filled with packing peanuts.

"Let's get after it."

They leave his mini-van as deep as they can get it before reaching impassable roads. The trail isn’t open at this time of year. It takes them half an hour just to reach the normal trail-head, large glaring signs decorating the way, warning against irresponsible hiking and easily lost winter trekkers.

At the divergence of the paths the tracks tell a clear story. There are about a dozen foot-prints in the foot of powder - maybe another half dozen snow-shoes, all headed up the way that the reports had said Sandy Jones had gone.

Castiel stands and looks after them for a moment. All that hope, all that fear. And they are heading into more danger than they realize. He wonders where Sandy is now. He can still see her face from the reports on his phone. Short brown hair. Freckles. Laughing eyes. Young. He wonders if she’s huddled in some frozen cave surrounded by the dank breath of monsters she can just hear, forced to imagine them. Or is she handcuffed to some sap-sticky pine-tree, while a hunter who shares his dark hair, his blue eyes, sharpens knives and mutters spells, preparing to open his soul to something beyond.

They turn away from the crowded tracks that follow Sandy’s path, heading north instead of east, towards the reported attack-site.

It's almost a pleasant hike. Or might be, if not for the living-ghost of a girl floating around his mind. The sky doesn't have a single cloud and the weather's warmed from what it was in Dakota. It's pleasant enough that he doesn't even need his heavy coat, just a good fleece and his vest. And without a backpack weighing him down the snow’s hardly any trouble.

The angels don't even seem to notice the weight of the stuff; they bob along a few feet in front of him, talking back and forth just out of earshot. Their feet don't even sink in.

"We're far enough off the populated zone now," Luke's voice sounds behind him. The angels stop, turning round to face him. "If we want to have the best shot you two should scout ahead, and around. Keep an eye out for tracks and let us know if you find any."

"What kind of tracks?" Dean asks.

Luke's expression doesn't shift. "Big ones."

Sam cracks a smile, putting a hand on his brother's shoulder before he can say anything. "We'll check it out." And with that they're gone.

"That's still creepy," Luke grumbles, continuing to trek, moving right past Castiel. "I feel like there's supposed to be smoke, a bang, something."

Castiel frowns at his back, keeping up the pace. "What? Like wizards?"

He sees his shoulders shrug. "Maybe."

It's quiet for a moment. The sunlight pours down silent and stern through the trees, cutting the white of the ground into sharp shapes of yellow light and indigo shadow.

"I don't see many tracks," Castiel says.

"I know."

"Of anything."

"I know."

Castiel frowns at the ground around them. It's unusual. Even in loosely populated areas in this climate, they should have seen something. Heavy bobcat pads maybe, or the thin straight lines of coyotes and foxes. Rabbit, deer, something. He doesn’t even see bird tracks.

"Do you think she's alive?" Castiel asks.

"Who? The girl?"

"Sandy," Castiel corrects.

Luke laughs roughly in front of him, as if he's surprised Castiel would use her name. "Of course she's alive."

"Because she's the sacrifice."

Luke makes a soft affirmative noise.

Castiel looks down to the ground under his feet, carefully navigating a patch of icy rock. "Do you think she's alright?"

"No," Luke says, like someone asked him if he wanted cream in his coffee.

Castiel frowns. The frustration tightens in his chest. "What I was saying this morning--"

"Do you remember when I dropped you off? When I left you with Minister Grey?" Luke says suddenly.

Castiel can't help pausing for a moment, mouth still half open. "I, uh, yes. Some of it."

Luke keeps moving up the slope. "What do you remember?"

Castiel turns his eyes back to the path, trying to think. He used to remember the moment often, every day even. But that was before a rushed hand shoved him behind a statue of Saint Francis and made him promise not to come out again no matter what. It was before he realized his life was never meant to change, no matter who left him on a minister’s doorstep.

He considers not answering, but that's hardly fair. He asked for answers, it’s only right to show the candor he wishes for in return.

"I remember being in your car,” Castiel says. “You didn't look old enough to be driving."

Rain had splashed against the windshield, heavy and constant. The wipers weren't working well, leaving long trails behind them. He remembers the smell of old worn leather, the red lights of other cars occasionally flitting past, dragging through the lines of wet on the glass around them.

Gabriel had held his hand the whole way. He had just turned ten a week before.

"I remember you looked afraid. It made us afraid," Castiel continues, watching his feet. One step. Then another. "We were used to hunters, so it wasn't the blood, or the weapons, or, it was just... We didn't know you really. It was always our father who moved us. We were shifted, swapped between hunters every six months or so. They were always 'doing a favor', and then it was on to another. We assumed someone was trying to keep us safe."

"That was his way of trying to keep you safe," Luke says. He doesn't look at him, he continues walking, the back of his head bobbing with each step. "It's what he considered best. After mom died."

"Our father?" Castiel asks.

Luke makes an affirmative sound.

"But he didn't take us to Minister Grey," Castiel swallows. "You did."

"He was dead," Luke answers. “Because of me. I ended it.” He steps forward once. Again. “I killed him.”

The forest sits still as death all around, sunlight hard and sharp. Nothing stirs.

Off in the distance a pile of snow slips off a tree, hardly making a noise as it joins the white of the ground.

It's silent for a long moment.

"Why?" Castiel asks finally.

“He was going to kill me,” Luke answers.

Castiel stops walking. "Luke…”

His brother turns. His face is still; calm even, voice steady. “You wanted a story. This is that. One day, a hunter decided to open the seven seals. To start the revelation. To see our mother again. To save the world. In order to open the seals you must become the Lamb of God. In order to become the Lamb of God you must complete a spell. A complex one. And at the end, in the final step, you have to sacrifice something dearer to you than anything else. Spells can be nasty like that.”

Luke holds his look, pale eyes sharp against the sunlight.

“He tied me down. He promised me it would be fine. He told me he loved me. He’d never said that before. And he raised a knife over my head."

Castiel stares. He wants to speak, but he doesn’t know what to say.

Luke's face hasn't budged. Slowly, he reaches up, tugging the shirt under his jacket to one side. The charm he wears around his neck is pulled to one side. There's a clean white scar just under his left collar bone.

"He missed,” Luke continues. “Michael pushed him. I think. I'm not sure if it was an accident or not. But he missed. I got out of the ropes while I still could. But a portal was open, ready for it's sacrifice. There were hands reaching for me. Hungry. Cold. They needed something."

Luke doesn't blink. He hasn't once.

"We struggled. All of us. I don't know if anyone really knew what they were trying to do. He slipped. Fell back. Michael caught his hand for a moment. But it was too late. And then he was gone."

Castiel swallows. "And... Michael?"

"Wasn't happy."

"No… No, How could he be?"

"I left him. He was trying to open the portal again. Screaming nonsense, fumbling with the books. But he was never very good with spells. I ran to the car. Drove to the first crossroads. It wasn't far. Half a mile. I made a deal. I made them promise to never let our father out again. Ever. No matter what deal anyone else offered. I made them promise to keep him down there forever. And I sealed the deal.”

Castiel frowns, brow heavy.

Luke's look goes distant. "Funny... someone raises a knife over your head and things become quite clear. I saw everything very well, all of a sudden. They were things I'd always know. Somehow. But I hadn't wanted to see. In the end I didn't have much choice. The light can be very bright once your out of the dark.”

"You made a deal, so Michael couldn't save him?” Castiel says. “Did he find out?"

"Oh, he caught up. The second she stopped kissing me. Good timing.” Luke gazes off through the trees. “I’d never been punched that hard before."

"And that was it? That's what separated you two?"

"He hasn't spoken to me since," Luke turns back to the trek, boots crunching against the snow. "I thought he might try again. Do something stupid. I didn't know what he would do honestly, so I drove. Got you, and Gabriel, and brought you someplace I knew he wouldn't find."

Castiel hasn't started walking again. He can't seem to make his feet follow. "You were in hell... you sold your soul, because you didn't want any of this."

"Yeah, well," Luke shrugs, blond hair dull against the white of the winter, "life's a beach."

 


	9. Kumbaya

It's getting dark, sooner than Luke realized it would. Sunset's still more than an hour off, but the way the peaks are arranged the light is already being steadily sealed away. It's gone thin and sharp between the trees, burning bright lower on the horizon.

Underfoot the snow crunches from the cold of the past week. Hidden rocks and deep drifts make for slow going, even with ski-poles to feel for bad spots.

The woods block the wind well, but it is picking up just enough to feel. Not a good thing. He knows it will be carrying their smell half way round the mountain. Then again, with so many people out looking, they might not be the most diverting meal-on-wheels out there.

Castiel hasn't spoken to him for hours. He can't say he's surprised. It's always nice to hear what kind of family you come from. Puts things in perspective.

He imagines learning that your father was ready to murder his own child in order to bring about the end of the world takes some time to sink in. Then again, that's what some people call heroic, isn't it?

"Hey.”

Luke just manages not to fall backwards right down the hill again. Castiel comes to a dead stop behind him.

Dean grins back at them, suddenly right along side. "Found something."

"Tracks?" Castiel asks.

"No. Waldo."

Castiel glares.

"Where?" Luke asks.

"Just east," Dean nudges his head in the right direction.

"Take us over there?" Castiel asks.

"It's not far," Dean returns, turning to walk south.

"Actually, I'm feeling a little tired of walking," Castiel grumbles, following a few steps behind.

Luke glances over his shoulder. "Trust me, walking’s just fine."

"It didn't look so bad," Castiel says, "you looked alright when Sam got you out of that basement."

"It feels like being sucked through a curly straw."

"Maybe it's some kind of wormhole..." Castiel drifts off.

“Time Warp again?” Luke grins.

"Alright, alright," Dean interrupts, “enough quantum speculation. It's here."

They step up behind him, Sam's waiting a few meter's off, leaning down to look at something on the snow-covered ground. They move closer.

"It looks about right," Dean continues, "so you know, sniff it, and go fetch, or whatever."

"That's very rude,” Castiel says.

"Oh, is that not how this works?"

"No. It's significantly more complicated. And you're not supposed to wear sunglasses once it gets dark."

Sam interrupts. “It doesn't look very fresh.”

Luke kneels down across from him. It's a wendigotrack for sure, at least they've gotten that right. The spread is similar to a wolf's but longer. Bigger. He could see how some wardens might mistake it for something canine, but the way the tracks pace, they're not the straight line that wolves leave. It's a long stride, wider set, bipedal.

The next one is a meter or so away. It looks like there are more after it. They're lucky it wasn't using the trees.

Castiel's standing behind him. "What do you think? Eight feet?"

Luke stands. "Nine."

Castiel keeps critically eying the track. "Eight." Luke can't help smiling.

"So? What now?" Dean asks.

Sam stands. "We follow them."

"And take it slow," Luke adds, "you don't know if it decided to slip up to some lower branches or drop down to all fours. No flitting off."

Dean scoffs, "Flit my ass."

Sam let's out a quick laugh.

"Shut up," Dean grumbles.

"It headed up," Castiel concludes, moving after the tracks. The rest of them follow.

The gathering darkness doesn't make it easy. The patterns on the forest floor around them are slipping from the vivid, distracting array of gold and black, to a dull glow, and in the shadows and hollows, a deep indigo that's smothering all shape and form under it's weight.

Luke looses the path for a moment, but before he can admit it, Castiel picks it up again, noting the scuffed lines on a rock face where it scrambled over.

It didn't seem to be in any rush, nothing unusual. The tracks keep mostly to the ground, concise, unhurried. And then, they begin to slow.

Castiel comes to a stop. "It started to stalk. Here."

Luke peers through the dusk. "The tracks change pace, circling..."

"This way," Sam notes, gesturing to a closer set, moving around to the east.

"And this way," Dean nods in the opposite direction.

Castiel and Luke turn at once. "What?"

"These ones," Dean knocks a foot towards something a few meters off.

Castiel steps closer. "These are different."

"What do you mean different?"

"Bigger."

"Hey," Sam suddenly calls. They all turn. "Isn't that the camp-site."

He's right. A dozen or so meters ahead, through the silhouettes of the forest, there's something less organic. Luke moves for it, the others are close behind.

They emerge into a tight clearing. It's hardly big enough to set up three tents, but it doesn't look like all of them were in tents.

"Hey," Dean grins, pointing at a shredded camping hammock. "Wendigo burrito.”

"That's not funny," Castiel scolds.

Dean holds up both hands defensively, striding around the rest of the remains.

"Why haven't they cleaned this up?" Sam asks, stepping up to what's left of a tent. There's thick slices ripped through one side, half the framing collapsed around it.

"Still investigating likely," Luke says. There's a few dark splatters of blood splashed across the snow, but nothing dramatic. Nothing deadly. "It's not like they have to worry about too many people stumbling onto it this far out."

Luke nudges a strip of the tent fabric with his foot. There's a book, half covered in snow, pages wrinkled. The cover's worn, and it's getting too dark to see clearly what it reads.

"We'll stay here for the night," Luke says, standing up straight.

"Excuse me?" Dean turns.

"You heard me," Luke returns, kicking aside the tent and freeing some of the clearing.

"'Staying'," Dean repeats, "we're not ‘staying’. We're moving. Hunting. Unless I missed something hunting doesn't mean sleeping."

"It's getting dark," Luke says. "I don't hunt wendigos in the dark. And no hunter worth his salt does either. We can sleep in shifts in case any circle around again. Pick up the trail in the morning."

"Fucking christ," Dean swears.

"Dean," Sam reproaches.

"Luke--" Castiel's voice says somewhere behind him.

"What Sam? Whats the plan here, anyway?" Dean breaks in before Luke can respond.

"We find the wendigos, and then we find the seal," Sam says.

"And what do we do when we find wendigos? Question them? They're not exactly chatty - what with the demented jaws capable of swallowing a skull. And the centuries spent living in caves feeding off of anyone who pops by with some pamphlets."

"Luke..."

"The berserkers were protecting Michael," Sam continues, "it's likely that the wendigos will be doing the same. We can follow them."

"Yeah, right, we'll just sneak behind the thing that can smell human-flesh from over ten miles away."

"Do you have a better idea?"

"Luke!"

They all turn. Castiel is staring into the woods. Luke's hand moves to his gun without thinking.

Off to the south, a branch cracks. Luke's gun is out of his holster, tight at his side. Castiel peers into the dark, taking one cautious step closer. It's almost completely dark by now. The shadows meld together just a meter into the trees, weaving a net of obscuring dark through the woods.

A shuffle. To their left.

Luke spins, pointing the gun directly at the source of the sound. The angels stand stick straight, suddenly still as statues.

Another crack. Closer.

Luke snaps back the hammer.

It’s closer. Too close.

Something stumbles out of the woods. Something covered in a bright shade of purple.

"Whoa, dude!" the kid shouts, head snapping up to see Luke's pointed gun. "What the fuck?!"

There's more stumbling behind him. Two other shapes emerge from the woods, staring in shock. Luke's gun is holstered in a second. He can feel Castiel's tension loosening beside him.

"What the hell?” the purple coat yells. "What the fuck are you doing man!?”

"Could ask you the same thing," Luke returns.

"You first," a female voice calls. A girl in a olive quilted coat with a brown vest zipped over it steps to the front. They can just see all three of them now. There's the boy in the purple, a little shorter than Luke, longer curly hair sprouting out from under his cap. Another boy, shorter hair, black outwear, suspiciously taking all of them in. And the girl. She's standing half a foot in front of the rest of them, one hand around the strap of her backpack. There’s a rifle on her back and her chin is lifted boldly.

They're young. All three of them.

"What the hell is this?" Dean mutters behind them.

"You shouldn't be on this part of the peak," Castiel says sternly. "It's off limits, after the attack last week."

"Yeah, and who the hell are you?" the kid in the black calls back.

"Rangers," Castiel returns, "we're investigating the incident.”

"At night?" the girl replies, one brow raising skeptically.

"Never mind when,” Luke says firmly. "You should turn around now and head right back the way you came. This area is restricted for a reason. We should write all three of you up. There's a pretty steep fine for this sort of thing, you know."

"Who are they," the girl says, ignoring him and gesturing at Dean and Sam. "They don't look like rangers."

"Rangers in training," Dean replies. Sam elbows him hard. "Ow, what the fuck, man?"

The girl almost smiles. "Rangers in training, seriously? He's wearing jeans."

"Now look," Luke continues, "we've given you a warning, so turn back now and head out of here before we really start to get irritated. I'm sure your parents wouldn't want anyone risking a felony."

The kid in the black looks wary. "Hey, Kris, maybe--"

"No," the girl says firmly, taking a step closer. She meets Luke's eyes. "If you want me off this peak, you're going to have to carry me down yourself."

Luke evaluates her carefully. She means it, that much is obvious. She can’t be more than twenty, yet there’s a stone under her expression that he recognize easily enough.

“What are all of you doing up here?” Castiel asks.

“Hunting monsters!” the purple-jacket grins.

“Jesus christ, Gavin,” the black-coat swears. “Do you ever shut up?”

Castiel frowns. “There’s no such thing as monsters.”

“Yeah, that’s what the other rangers said too, but come on - I mean look at this shit!” ‘Gavin’ says excitedly, lifting up one edge of the shredded hammock. “Nothing natural that lives around here can do that.”

Sam and Dean exchange a look.

“There’s been strange attacks around these hills for decades,” Gavin continues, “but no one’s ready to admit the truth. My uncle Ethan, he saw it once, when he was up here in hunting season ten years ago. Never forgot it. But no one believed him, especially not rangers—“

“Right,” Luke interrupts, “so, if it’s not a bear, or a wolf, or anything more… natural, then what is it?”

Gavin’s face breaks into a toothy grin. “Are you sure you’re ready for the truth?”

Dean’s stepping closer now, expression immensely amused. “Lay it on us, Shaggy.”

The kid’s enthusiasm doesn’t waver. His voice lowers, dramatic, reverent. “ _Werewolves_.” 

“Oh yeah?” Luke raises an eyebrow. “Werewolves? Like from Twilight.”

“No!” the kid exclaims, utterly disappointed, “not like _Twilight_!”

“Knock it off Gavin,” the other boy says sharply. “You know we’re not here for that. We’re here for Kris, for Sandy.”

Suddenly Castiel’s face shifts. “I remember you. You’re Kris Jones.” He points back towards the girl who’s still glaring at Luke as if daring him to try and heft her all the way back down the trail. “You’re Sandy’s sister.”

“Oh jesus christ,” Dean grumbles, turning away from the group in frustration.

“That’s right,” the girl answers. “Everyone thinks that she’s on the other slope, but I know Sandy. She wouldn’t get lost. She wouldn’t just vanish. We’ve been hiking these peaks, in all seasons, since we were ten. Something happened to her.”

“Something… unnatural.”

“God Gavin, please, just shut the fuck up.”

“That’s some good advice, Gavin,” Dean throws in.

“Kris?” Sam asks, suddenly taking a step closer. 

She turns to face him, look softening slightly at his expression.

“Look,” he continues, “I understand, you want to find your sister. Trust me, if my brother went missing I’d be doing the same exact thing. And you’re right to come over here. There is something wrong with this scene. But that’s why we’re here. We’re exploring all the options that others aren’t. But we have to do our job, and with all of you here, that gets much harder. Things could get dangerous, and we don’t need anyone else getting into trouble.”

The girl shifts her arm, swinging the rifle to the front. “I’m a good shot. I’m not leaving. Like I said, you’ll have to make me.”

“Kris,” the black-jacket tries, “look, maybe we should just let them do their thing.”

“We’ve been over this Kieran,” she says sharply, turning to him. “We’re going to do everything we can, no matter what that means.”

“Do you have silver bullets ready?” Gavin asks eagerly, slipping a hand into his pocket. “Cause I made some, yesterday. Uncle Ethan had a press ready to go and everything. I already made some fifties for Kris—“

“That’s enough,” Dean says suddenly, stepping forward with a very particular expression. Even Gavin’s smart enough to shut up when he sees it.

“Listen to me, all of you,” Dean says, voice hard enough to break ice, “you are turning around, and going back down this peak. Right. _Now_.”

“Wait…” Castiel says suddenly.

Dean turns to him. “Wait? Seriously?”

Castiel ignores him, looking to Luke. “It’s dark.”

“Those tracks were almost a week old,” Luke says in a lower voice.

“One set of them was,” Castiel returns, quiet enough to be out of their company’s earshot.

Luke glances at Sam and then thinks better of that idea. Getting three kids down a peak by angelic teleportation isn’t a much better option. If things get bad it might be necessary. But was it now?

Luke sighs heavily, running a hand through his hair. It’s almost totally dark now, leaving only the vaguest sense of the others around them, just enough to tell that Dean is glaring at Gavin as if the kid’s declared he’s the president of Freedonia. The girl is still standing straight and strong, unflinching, one hand tight around her hunting rifle. Sam’s watching her, concerned, kind. The last kid, Kieran, is still hanging around behind them, shifting back and forth, eyeing the silence of the woods.

“Alright,” Luke says finally, turning, addressing all of them, “here’s how it’s going to be: we camp here. All of us. For the night.”

“We’re not stopping. We’re finding Sandy,” Kris says firmly.

“I don’t know Kris,” Gavin tuts, “werewolves have _excellent_ night vision. And all their other sense are  'heightened’.”

“‘Heightened’ compared to what?” Dean scoffs.

Kieran steps up behind her. “We should stop. It’s dangerous at night with this ice.”

“Uh, excuse me?” Dean suddenly breaks in, face strained. “Could we talk. Just for one sec?”

“Fine,” Luke answers. Castiel sighs, turning to step to one side, the rest of them follow, moving a meter or two away from the kids hearing.

“Ranger’s conference?” Kris calls after them.

Dean grumbles, turning into their own group. “What the fuck’s happening here? We running a summer camp?”

“Does it looks like summer?” Luke says.

Dean gives him a look.

“They can’t walk down the peak themselves in the dark,” Castiel says. “And the only other solution is you transporting them down, which is frankly not a solution.”

“Why not?” Dean shrugs. “They won’t know what happened. No one will believe them. Might as well have been some wacky college-break trip.”

“If you bring that girl to the bottom of this hill,” Luke says, “she’ll turn right around and start climbing it again.”

“So, we take them to fucking Hawaii, little winter vacation, bring them back when we clean this up.”

“Dean,” Sam says suddenly, giving him a look.

Dean swears. “Right, shit. Fine, fine.”

“What?” Castiel asks.

“We can’t go that far,” Sam answers shortly.

“Why not?” Castiel presses. “Since when?”

“Since now, okay, jesus it doesn’t matter. All I know is we are not stopping any seal shattering with the scooby-gang nipping around our ankles,” Dean finishes.

“She’s wants to find her sister,” Sam says quietly.

“It’s natural,” Cas adds.

“Yeah, and the best chance she has of seeing her sister again is letting us get after it here. So she can chill out,” Dean says.

“Enough,” Luke breaks in.

They all go quiet.

“We stay here,” he continues, “but not for long. We set up camp with these kids, get them settled. No fires, no risking any extra attention. It’s looking like a clear night. There’s a good moon. We let them fall asleep. They’re teenagers, so it shouldn’t be too hard. Once they’re out, we keep tracking. We’ll get a few hours sleep in the meantime. Then we go.”

“What about them?” Castiel asks. “What if they get into trouble here, or anywhere for that matter?”

Luke shrugs. “We send the angels back to check-in on them, and if they do get into trouble, we have a good lead. They’re not terrible bait.”

Castiel frowns. “Maybe it would be better just to bring them down the mountain.”

“No, Luke’s right,” Sam says. “She’ll just come right back up again.”

“Not if we tie her to a tree,” Dean tries.

“Yeah, and that would make her indestructible for a wendigo,” Sam says.

“So, we camp, and we leave early,” Luke confirms. “Right?”

Castiel doesn’t seem happy about it but nods all the same. “Right.”

“Right,” Sam affirms.

Dean grumbles something, but turns back to the kids all the same. By the time they’re back in front of them Gavin’s dropped his bag to the ground, rummaging a flashlight and some other supplies out of it.

“We’ll stay,” Kris says as soon as they step close, “but it’s on our terms, yeah?”

Luke holds up his hands casually. “Sure. Your terms.”

Kieran steps deeper into the campsite. Then stops. “Uh, is that… blood?”

Gavin looks up quickly. “Werewolf blood?”

Dean turns away. “Oh yeah. This is a great plan.”

It doesn’t take them long to set up the camp. And for all their faults the kids do seem prepared for the night. Within an hour things have almost settled in. No fire, but a few flashlights flick around the white forest floor. Kris and Kieran have a tent set up to one side, next to Luke’s. Gavin’s snuggled down into in a hammock as far away as possible from where they pulled down the shredded remains of the last one. All the torn bits of the last camp site are piled to one side, just near where Cas’ tent is propped up half heartedly.

Castiel settles in by the southern edge of their limited space. There’s a fallen tree just to the side of his tent that’s welcoming enough. He volunteered for the first watch shift. It seemed smartest to let the angels patrol the edges, keep an eye on things, while he or Luke watch the campsite, making sure the kids don’t try and sneak off before them.

Judging by the darkness behind the nylon geometry of Luke’s tent, he’s already crashed, making the most of their limited allotment of sleep. Sam and Dean slipped off into the forest ten minutes ago and it seems that everyone is starting to settle in. Leaving him. And the quiet.

If it weren’t for the circumstances it might even be pleasant. Out here in the woods. He’s always liked the woods. They feel simple to him somehow. Simpler than other things at least.

It’s cold, but not biting like last week, and with an extra layer it’s tolerable. The night’s clear, and a large moon is rising high enough to fill the forest with an iced, still light. The trees wait like stone on all sides, skeletal fingers stretching towards the stars, caging them off from him.

The stars are crisp above, crisp as the snow below. They wink back at him, vast and deep beyond the crisscross of branches. He’s glad it’s a cloudless night. If it was dark above it would be so below, and that would make all of this just that much harder.

Something shifts to his left. His hand is on his hip in a moment, but he doesn’t draw, and suddenly someone plops down on the fallen limb next to him.

“Um,” Castiel tries.

Kris doesn’t answer him. She wiggles slightly, getting comfy on the log and crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“What are you doing?” Castiel asks.

She glances over at him. “What are _you_ doing?”

“Keeping watch.”

“Then that’s what I’m doing.”

Castiel frowns. “The point of keeping watch is only one person has to do it."

“Then why are you doing it?”

“What?”

“I saw your friends, the ‘rangers in training’. They headed into the woods to circle fifteen minutes ago.”

“Precautions,” Castiel tries.

“Right,” Kris says, “so consider me extra ‘precautions’.”

Castiel looks away. He knits his hands, leaning on his knees.

“You should sleep,” he says. “You look tired.”

“You don’t,” she returns. “How come you didn’t have any packs?”

“Our… the trainees were carrying our supplies.”

She snorts. “That sounds stupid. What is that, some kind of hazing?”

“No, it’s just—“

“And what kind of rangers carry revolvers instead of rifles anyways?” she continues, looking right back at him.

Castiel holds her gaze. “Our kind.”

She shakes her head, looking out towards the rest of the tents. “Look man, are you seriously rangers?”

Castiel’s quiet for a moment. “We’re seriously here to help. We want to find your sister. We want to make sure she’s safe. And I mean that.”

Kris nods quietly. She still seems skeptical but at there’s something more solid about her look, something that seems to appreciate the truth, or at least not a lie.

She kicks at the snow with the toe of her boot. “Do you think she is?”

“What?”

“Safe?”

Castiel sighs, flexing his fingers to keep blood flowing. “I don’t know. I think she is for now, but I think she’s in danger.”

“Do you think it’s werewolves?” she asks, looking back.

Castiel can’t help smiling. “Do you?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think that bears or wolves did this,” she gestures to the campsite, “but it just seems too crazy. I know Gavin can get carried away with stuff. And his Uncle Ethan’s a decent guy, but living up in the woods for twenty years can make anyone a bit of a nut-job.”

Castiel nods. The moon is even higher now, the only movement in the wood the imperceptible slip of shadows, easing, bit by bit, over the forest floor.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she says.

Castiel leans back, putting his hands back on the log. “I don’t think it’s werewolves.”

“But, you think it’s something. Something not bears.”

Castiel nods slowly. “Something not bears.”

Kris is quiet for a moment. They look off together at the night, the sharp pale light, slicing across the tents and hammocks sitting still as the rest of the scenery.

“I think I haven’t really let any of this sink in yet,” she says quietly. “It doesn’t feel real.”

Castiel looks over at her. “Your sister hasn’t been gone long.”

“That’s just it though,” she continues, “I’m home from school. It’s Christmas, New Years. I came home late for break because… the truth was I just didn’t really want to come home.”

Castiel let’s his eyes shift out over the woods again. It would be nice to come home. Just once. “You don’t like home?”

“It’s not even that— I just… It feels like there was a different me who lived here. Like this place, the hills, and the town, they belong to a different person. It’s like time sort of stops in hometowns, doesn’t it? I mean things change, they grow and fall apart, but there’s always your bed, and your room, and your parents making you coffee in the morning along with theirs. And it’s like… it’s always been the same. And I know it’s stupid, but part of me feels like we leave these versions of ourselves in all these places we live our lives. These shadows. And two can’t exist at once. It’s like college me would slip away, and home me would slip back, and I don’t know… I was just worried about that. For some reason.”

Castiel doesn’t answer. There’s nothing to say. There’s nowhere for him with a shadow lingering in the corners of familiar space. There’s no familiar spaces left at all.

“But it’s so stupid,” she continues. “I get home and suddenly, I’m just… home. And Sandy’s there, and even though we hadn’t talked for a month, we’re just sisters again, fighting over the bathroom counter and sharing the couch to watch Netflix at eleven at night. And now… I went all fall without her being right there, I don’t think it’s really set in that she’s not just _not_ there. She’s gone.”

“You don’t know that,” Castiel says gently, “not yet.”

“I know, I know,” she swallows. “It just seems so stupid. Three days ago we were arguing over wether Jimmy Fallon was a sex symbol or not.”

Castiel smiles. “Your lucky to have a sister.”

She looks over to him. “Do you have a sister?”

His brow furrows. “No.”

“What about brothers?”

He doesn’t know how to answer her. “I do but… I don’t. I don’t know them. I had a brother once. A real one. But he went away.”

“Did he die?” she asks hesitantly.

Castiel actually almost laughs. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t. I don’t think so. I hope not.”

It’s quiet for a moment.

“There’s another one… one of my brothers,” Castiel starts again, “he’s trying to get to know me. I can tell he wants to, but, I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

Castiel considers. “I don’t know if I want to know him.”

She frowns. “Why not?”

“He’s an ass. And pompous. And he thinks he knows better than any one else walking the earth.” He pauses. “And I’m angry with him,” he admits. “I’m angry it took him so long to try.”

Kris turns back to the campsite, leaning forward, arms heavy on her knees. “Yeah, well, siblings can suck.”

Castiel let’s out a soft laugh. “Yes.”

“But,” she glances back at him over her shoulder. “You’re sort of lucky they’re there to.”

Castiel stares down at his own boots. “I don’t feel very lucky.”

Kris’ look drifts distant, her arms move a little tighter, closer to her body as if she’s suddenly cold.

“Trust me. I’d give anything, really anything, to be fighting with Sandy over the toothpaste cap right now instead of sitting out on this freezing log with you.”

Castiel glances over. “What does she do with the toothpaste cap?”

Something snaps behind them.

Kris is standing instantly, turning to look. Castiel’s hand’s under his coat, fingers wrapping around freezing steel.

“What was that?” she asks.

Castiel doesn’t answer. He’s listening. Carefully.

Another snap. This one’s to the left. Ten meters off. Maybe twenty.

The gun’s at his side, hammer back.

“I saw something,” a voice says at his elbow.

Kris jumps, smothering a short yell. Sam’s there. Close, looking rushed.

“Me too,” calls another voice. Dean, on the other side.

Kris is staring at them, fear clear in her eyes.

Castiel focuses. “Where?”

Another snap. A shuffle. There’s something. Close.

“North,” Dean answers, pointing. “Hundred meters or so. I know I saw it, but I lost it. They’re fucking fast.”

Sam’s staring at him.

“What?” Castiel asks.

“Mine was south. Hundred meters.”

“Your what?” Kris asks.

There’s a jostling noise behind them. Castiel turns. Luke’s out of his tent, dressed, probably always was. His Ruger’s in one hand, a kerosene torch in the other.

“Where?” he asks, running his sharp eyes along the tree-line.

“North. And south.” Sam answers.

There’s another shuffling sound close by.

“Kris?” a voice whispers.

“Gavin?” she calls back.

“What’s going on?”

“Something’s in the woods.”

Gavin doesn’t look excited to hear it. His eyes are wide, glancing around at the trees, stepping closer, tiger, to the gathering group.

Snap. Again.

They spin. Looking, searching. Castiel and Luke’s guns point.

There’s nothing. Nothing but the stillness. Pale iced light and sharp shadows crisscross, tangling up anything that might be perceptible.

Kris looks around. “Where’s Kieran?"

Just to the west, not close, but not far off, someone screams.

 


	10. Creature Feature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The amazing and glorious [Vera](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_DragonMuse/pseuds/Vera) has been my beta for this and future chapters. She's the best and I'm so grateful for her insights <3

“Keiran,” Kris’ breathe catches. Gavin’s gone impossibly paler in the moonlight.

The scream doesn’t last long. It pierces the air once and then vanishes, snatched away as quickly as it sounded.

Kris starts running all at once. Luke catches her arm.

“He’s out there! Let me go!”

Luke doesn’t let go. Castiel is already running towards the darkened woods where the scream sounded, a propane canister in one hand and Dean right behind him.

“Look sharp,” Castiel yells over his shoulder. “There was more than one.”

“I said let me go!” Kris screams. She twists and kicks for Luke’s groin.

He just manages to dodge it. “Hold on! Just hold on. What do you think you’re going to do?”

“Something! He’s hurt — we have to go after him!”

“You’re not going out there.”

“Kris, maybe he’s right.”

“Shut up, Gavin! We’re not just letting him vanish like Sandy!”

There’s another snap. All of them go silent at once.

Another. Closer.

Something scraps against a tree.

“Sam, get them out of here. Now,” Luke whispers sharply.

“What do you mean ‘out of here’? We aren’t leaving! We aren’t leaving him!”

“It’s alright,” Sam says hurriedly. He takes a step forward, and reaches out for both of their shoulders just as Luke lets her go, turning to scan the woods.

There’s a crack and a sudden pop of light. “Ah!”

Luke spins. Sam’s fallen back, face twisted with surprise, each hand steaming in the cold of the night air.

“Holy shit…” Gavin stares, down at his own shoulder and then back at Sam.

“What the fuck?” Luke asks.

“I can’t,” Sam stammers, “there’s something wrong—”

“Look Sam,” Luke snarls. “Charming as it is I think we’re past these cute little secrets, so you’d better tell me—“

“It’s not that,” Sam says sharply, “it’s them, something about them!”

“Oh my god…” Gavin takes a step back. One hand slides to his neck and pulls free a charm from under his jacket, brandishing it outwards defensively. “He’s a werewolf! You’re both werewolves!”

“Jesus Christ,” Luke swears, “we are not fucking _werewolves_!”

“Then what was that?” Kris asks, stepping back as well. “Why can’t he touch us?”

Luke peers through the dark. “What is that? What have you got on your neck?”

“Stay back night beast!” Gavin yells at Luke.

“Gavin!” Kris breaks in. “He touched me and was fine, remember? He’s not a werewolf. They’re charms.”

“What sort of charms?”

“My uncle made them,” Gavin says. “He has some old book his nan left him with protections, he said they would keep us safe.”

“They’re not werewolf repellent; they’re wards. Your uncle’s been mixing up his magics,” Sam snarls, still shaking his hand. “I can’t do anything, not unless they take them off.”

“Damn it,” Luke swears. “Alright, take them off.”

“No!” Gavin exclaims.

“You’re not safe here. Something is coming, something that’s worse than fucking werewolves. We have to get you somewhere safe. Take them off. Kris— Kris!”

She’s too fast to catch, already out of reach, running full tilt through the snow across the campsite.

“KRIS, STOP!” Luke yells.

She does. But not for him.

Her feet skid to a halt, scrambling to stop, eyes staring into the darkness of the forest beyond.

She staggers back one step. “Oh my god—“

It rises out of the darkness. Past her head. Past the lower branches. And the higher ones. The feet emerge into the moon light first. Wide. Clawed. Spreading against the ground, silent as falling snow. Thinly-furred legs follow. They’re bent strangely, like a deer’s. Bones move under the thinnest layer of skin, shining dimly in the moonlit. The rest of it’s emaciated, hollowed body follows. The skin is a taut sick-pallor, saran-wrap tugged over a demented, twisted skeleton. It’s arms seem too long for the rest of it, knuckles low enough to drag along the snow, weighed down by long jagged claws, smeared dark of centuries of viscera and gore, all the way up to sharp elbows that pull wretchedly at the thin skin.

The long, stag-like neck twists, turning the face down to peer at the girl frozen in the snow.

The face is always the worst.

It had been human once, that face, before it was manipulated, like a fistful of clay, to make room for a wolf’s jaws inside. Nothing seems to fit right inside that face, not the jaw bones gleaming exposed and starved in the moonlight, nor the twisted antlers squirming out of the dank thin strands of whatever remains of its hair.

The eyes were the most unsettling, still so human. They could have been anyone's eyes.

Those eyes look down at Kris. Empty. Glazed. Starved. Slowly, with a soft wet sound, the jaw slides open, and a long, dripping tongue unfolds over a foot long.

Kris screams.

Luke shoots. The bullet hits with a sharp crack, right below the antlers in the left side of the forehead. The monster stumbles back, but doesn’t fall. He didn’t think it would. He knows it won’t be enough.

Kris has turned back again, running for them, boots slipping against the snow. Luke steps forward. One pace crunches. Another. He shoots again. This time he gets the jaw, shoving the thing’s twisted anatomy to one side, easily ripping through the pulled flesh.

He gets the propane tank in one fist as Kris tears past him. From the corner of his eye he has the sense of Sam catching her, shoving them both behind him. Luke twists the propane, getting his lighter in the same hand. It won’t work yet. Closer. He has to be closer.

His foot catches. He glances down to tug it free. It snaps back. He looks up—

The claws catch him hard across the chest. Hard enough to throw him backwards.

He hits the snow with a sharp hiss. The snow is sharp and freezing against his cheek, his chest three furious lines of pain. He tries to uncurl, to stand, but the pain grips, twists. He gasps, shoving a gloved hand up to press the wounds shut.

He fumbles for the propane tank. The monster doesn’t seem to be interested in him now that he’s down. One of the heavy paws steps past his fallen face, sinking into the snow. It’s going for the others.

“What is it? What the fuck is it—“ Gavin’s voice cries.

Sam’s standing in front of both of them, arms spread out. The thing steps two paces closer. Then stops.

There’s an intake of air: hollow, like a sniff. It’s jaw drops open and it makes a sound. It’s wretched. Torn.

It spreads its stance, arching down. Daring. Ready.

Sam eases the kids back. He takes a step forward. Luke’s hands feel slick against his chest. He tries to stand. He doesn’t make it. The icy crunch of snow slams against his face all over again.

The wendigo swings for Sam with a twisted cry. Sam dodges and swings his fist up. It connects. Right on the jaw.

Luke had known the angels were strong. He’d known they weren’t human. But somehow that reality hits home in a whole new way when a ten foot tall wendigo flies over your head before shattering through trees behind them.

Luke clenches his teeth. He plants a foot, and this time it sticks. He rights himself with a gasp, one hand still clutching his bleeding chest.

He turns to Sam. The forest sits still all around them, moonlight sharp on the snow. Sam hasn’t changed. He looks the same as he always has, but there’s something under his stare, something different, some dangerous thing that sends Luke’s pulse thudding “Look out!” Kris suddenly screams.

Sam turns just in time. The wendigo hangs in mid-air against the moon-lit sky for half a second. It hits Sam, smashing him back into the snow.

Kris and Gavin stumble backwards, rushing out of the way as Sam and the thing roll together over the ground. This one’s bigger. Castiel had said there were two.

Luke snatches the propane tank, flicking his lighter to life.

His feet go out from under him all at once. He hits the snow hard with a sharp swear. The lighter slips right out of his grasp, hitting the snow somewhere in the dark.

Something has his ankle. He turns to see. Too late. It’s already lifting him right off the ground.

He spins to see the first wendigo gazing back at him. It’s in bad shape. Its jaw is shattered, leaving one side hanging dumb and limp, tongue lolling down wet and red. Its hollow still-human eyes stare back at him. It unfurls it's claws

There’s a bang. A loud one. Luke hits the ground again. He doesn’t waste time looking to see what’s happened. His hand closes on his slick lighter sticking out of the snow. He turns with a sharp flick.

Flames explode through the indigo stillness of the forest. They flare, lighting the face of the wendigo and its outstretched claws as it reaches for him. The flames close in. It recoils instantly, broken voice screaming into the frozen air. The fire latches onto its body, wrapping around it with a hurried hunger. The monster twists and scrambles, ripping at its skin as it tries to tear the flames from it.

Luke doesn’t watch, he knows it’s over. He turns as soon as he knows it’s aflame. “SAM!”

The scuffle is lit in sharp lines, all orange and black against the brilliance from the screaming creature behind him.

The wendigo has Sam pinned down, two claws jammed right through his shoulder. Sam’s struggling, teeth gritted, trying to get his feet against the thing’s chest firm enough to kick it away. But his boots just squish through the rotten flesh.

Luke starts to run. His breath catches hard in his throat and white in the cold, pulse pounding against his ears.

There’s a bang. The same as the last one. The wendigo sags to one side. Kris is holding her hunting rifle, scope tight against one eye.

Sam takes the chance. He gets one hand around an antler and swings. The wendigo rolls as easily as if he’s shoved a dog and now Sam’s above it, one hand on the base of each antler.

Sam twists.

The skull rips in two with a sound crack. The top half snaps free, antlers tight in Sam’s hands, leaving just the lower jaw and a lolling tongue behind.

Sam steps back. The corpse collapses. He drops the top of the skull, tossing his head back to brush his hair out of his face.

Luke’s stopped running. He’s staring at the limp body twitching lightly in the snow.

“Hey,” Sam says.

Luke looks up. It’s the same voice. The same face. The one he thought he made up out of Camelot picture books. With the light of the dying wendigo catching along his brow and the shine of his hair turning gold and red in the fire, there’s he could be a knight right from those pages. Standing over some defeated dragon. But there’s something else as well. Something so hard and so raw that dark whispers stretch their fingers behind his own eyes, desperate to latch on and drink so deep, and so long, that he forgets everything else, anything else—

“Here,” Sam says, gesturing.

Luke catches himself. “Yeah.” He tosses the propane tank. Then the lighter.

Sam pulls back the canister. Once again flames eat up the darkness, easily catching on the body below them and filling the frozen air with the smell of burning rot.

Sam tosses the things back. Luke catches them, trying not to look at him for too long.

“Alright?” he asks, eyeing Sam’s shoulder.

Sam shrugs , the wound is likely already closed under the torn jacket. “It’s fine. What about you?” Sam frowns, looking at Luke’s chest.

He’d almost forgotten. It still stings but it doesn’t seem to be too deep. Sternums always bleed more than they should. They’re a bit like skulls that way.

“It’s alright,” Luke manages.

“You sure?”

“Yes. That was two. Castiel said there were two. But neither of those looked like they’d eaten. There must be a third that they’re after.”

“This many, we must be close to the seal, closer than we thought.”

“We should move.”

There’s a sound to their left. Luke turns. Gavin’s vomiting.

Kris is standing beside him. She’s holding the rifle. It’s still pointed, scope tight against her face. Her hands are shaking just enough to notice.

Slowly, Luke steps up to her.

“Hey,” he says gently.

She doesn’t look at him. Her brows are furrowed furiously, lips tight and white.

Gently, he reaches out and puts a hand around the barrel of the rifle. “It’s alright.”

He pushes it down. Hesitantly at first, then all at once, her grip loosens. She lets the gun fall, but she doesn’t let go. Her eyes stare down at the flaming corpse a few feet in front of them.

“You’re not rangers, are you?”

Luke puts a hand on her shoulder. She’s still shaking. “Not so much.”

Gavin groans from where he’s doubled over. “I want to go home. I’ll take it off. I don’t care. I want to go home.”

“Good,” Luke agree.

“Luke—“ Sam suddenly says sharply.

“What?”

The air goes still. Perfectly still.

Then, like a bird’s heart beat: the world shudders.

It’s not long, hardly half a second, and it’s gone. As if it never happened.

Luke stares. “What was that?”

“It’s happening,” Sam says, expression suddenly anxious. “He’s here. He’s started the spell.”

“Who’s started? What’s happening?” Kris asks. Her voice is still shaky but it’s getting stronger. She’s stopped staring at the bodies. “What is all of this? Do you know what happened to my sister?”

“It doesn’t matter. You need to go, now,” Luke says.

“It matters to me!” she suddenly yells. Fear into rage. It’s a good skill to have. “She’s out here with these things, and, and, whatever you are, and I’m going to bring her home!”

“Luke, we have to go. We can’t miss this again,” Sam says sternly.

“Look,” Luke turns on the girl, “I know you want to help your sister but trust me when I say that we have the best chance of doing that.”

“I doesn’t look like that to me,” she shoots back, “you would have been gutted if I hadn’t shot those things. Both of you.”

“I’ve dealt with plenty of monsters without nineteen-year-olds watching my back.”

He’s also dealt with plenty of monsters _with_ nineteen-year-olds watching his back, but that’s beside the point.

“Kris, please, let’s go,” Gavin moans.

“No,” she says firmly.

“What?” Gavin stares.

“I’m not going. Not with Sandy out here, not with Kieran out here.”

Luke tightens his jaw. “Kieran’s dead. And your sister will be too if you don’t let us go. Now.”

“No one’s stopping you!”

It happens again.. As if the air, reality itself, tremors. Just for a moment.

“We have to go,” Sam says sharply, “now.” And with that he’s rushing towards the forest.

Luke swears, running to follow him. Behind him he can hear two pairs of feet just managing to keep up.

Castiel halts as the shudder in the air stops. He looks down. The trail of blood they’re following, the heavy wendigo tracks alongside, both are right where there were before.

“What was that?” Castiel asks. “Dean? Stop! — DEAN!”

The angel stops running for the first time since they left, turning on him sharply. “What?!”

“What was that? What’s happening?”

“He’s reached it. The seal. We have to move. We can’t let him break another one.”

He turns to keep moving. Castiel catches his arm. “Stop. You heard them back there. They’re in trouble, we should go back.”

“No, we shouldn’t,” Dean says firmly. “Trust me, Sammy can handle it. They’ll be heading after us. They’ll have felt this.”

“They have those kids with them. They can’t manage them and wendigos all at once.”

“I’m sure they flew them down by now. Look,” Dean takes a step closer. His breathe is hot, misting the air between them in the dark of the wood. “Your brother’s here. He’s going to kill that girl if we don’t get there soon. So we move. Now. Right?”

Castiel stares back at him for a moment. He nods. “Right.”

“Good,” and with that Dean’s hurrying through the woods again.

Castiel does his best to keep up. It’s rough going, and the forest is getting thicker, but Dean doesn’t lose sight of the lines of blood that mark the way.

There’s _things_ moving through the forest along with them. Castiel glances over, trying to catch a sight of them, but they’re too fast, and in the jagged shapes of the moonlit forest it seems that the shadows themselves have come to life, moving in sharp twitching steps all along the way. But whatever is out there doesn’t seem interested in coming after them. Maybe they haven’t seen them. Maybe to them, they’re nothing but shadows as well.

Suddenly, Dean’s in front of him. Cas just manages to stop before knocking into his chest. The angel’s face has shifted, all that smiling ease struck into hard military stone.

“What?” Castiel asks softly.

Dean’s hand hits his shoulder.

It’s a strange feeling. It’s not the simple flash he almost suspected it would be, or a motion-sickening slide. It’s almost like someone twists the universe up, like a paper napkin, pulls it through his skull and then unfurls it out again, snapping everything back into multi-dimensional space once more.

Castiel gasps as the world inflates with a pop of context. He stumbles at the new ground under his feet, but Dean catches him. And it’s a good thing. He notices the ground first. Or rather, the lack of it.

They’re standing on a ledge. The stony earth falls off by at least thirty feet below. It’s all sharp stone and dappled snow, and beyond—

“Oh no,” Castiel breathes.

Wendigos. Lots of wendigos.

Their twisted bodies team in the shallow valley between their own ledge and another. There’s dozens. Bodies knocking together, the smell of rotten flesh and cold crawling up from the valley with tenacious fingers to reach them.

Castiel can’t help staring. He’s never seen more than one wendigo within fifty square miles. They’re viciously territorial, but here, now, they’re jammed together tight as slaughterhouse cattle. Their hollow eyes and demented faces jostle together. Some seem to be fighting, and based on the wet, fleshy noises emerging from their midst, he can guess over what.

He doesn’t want to look. But he’s never wanted to look. That’s what makes this a job. When no one else sees, hunters look. That way no one else has to.

There’s hardly anything left of the black parka. Three of them are still hunched over the shreds of it. Another presses in behind them, but the largest drops it’s jaw and lets out a hollow warning cry. Another tips its skull back, swallowing a shredded forearm whole. The girth of the limb expands its throat to twice its size, but it swallows all the same, bloody face shining like ink in the moonlight.

There’s more huddled groups, more wet, grasping fingers and sounds of snapping bones piercing the dark. More than one body can account for. The monsters are hunched over in at least a dozen places, wet jaws tearing through meat with guttural broken sounds. Strips of color flash every now and again amongst the writhing bodies: an orange cap, green gortex, blue gloves.

The sound is wretched, gentle but vicious. Dozens of them, feeding with wet distended jaws in the silence of the winter.

“They shouldn’t have come up here,” Dean says quietly.

“They didn’t know,” Castiel returns. “How could they know?”

The world shudders again. But this time, it’s more of a ripple.

The shake of reality spills out, hitting the wendigos first, then them up on their ledge. The monsters shiver against it, long backs extending as if feeling the first sun of summer.

Castiel peers through the dark the shudder passes them, looking for the source. The ledge opposite of theirs is taller, steep and stern rocky slopes leading up to a small plateau in front of a cave.

“There,” Dean says. “He must be in there.”

Castiel swallows. “There’s dozens of them… at least.”

“There’s warding. I can’t fly us over. Not all the way. I can get close, but only so close.”

“Close enough?”

“I don’t know. Guessing not. There’s too many. They’ll see us. Be on us before we can climb the ledge.”

Castiel stares down, scanning the foul masses below.

“Then what do we do?”

A branch slices past Luke’s cheek but he ignores it, rushing after the shape Sam’s back cuts through the trees.

It’s gotten colder with nightfall. He can feel his breath steaming up the air in front of him as it rushes out. He wants to yell after the tall figure, tell Sam to slow down, that he can’t move this quickly. But there are shapes in the woods, and they silence him.

They’re large shapes, slipping like water through the forest, all moving in the same direction as them. His hands are tight against a fresh propane tank, but they don’t seem to be interested in them.

He thinks the kids are still behind them, it sounds like it. The other shadows don’t make any noise at all.

They don’t run long. It can’t be more than a quarter of a mile before the trees end, all at once, at the edge of something he can’t yet see.

Luke hurries, stopping beside Sam at the edge of a steep ledge.

He looks down, and for a moment, hell sweeps back in front of his eyes. Sam swears beside him.

There’s a noise in the woods, loud, clumsy. Luke turns. “Wait—!“

But it’s too late. Gavin and Kris stumble to a stop next to them and they can’t help but see.

Gavin falls back until the image is out of sight, holding onto a tree for support. “What - what the hell are those things?!”

Sam doesn’t look at him as he answers. “Wendigos. The beasts of famine.”

Kris stays where she stopped, body frozen. “What is this? What is any of this?”

Luke frowns down at the monsters teeming in the pit. “The end of the world.”

Sam’s scanning the area, looking for something. He doesn’t have to look long.

A scream cuts through the air. A girl’s scream.

All attention swivels, Luke’s, Sam’s, Kris’s, each and every wendigo feeding down below.

The moon is bright enough to just make out shapes moving along the opposite ledge. A taller shape, a man. And smaller one behind. A girl. A girl being dragged. A girl who’s still screaming.

Kris moves quicker than he’s ready for. The rifle’s off her shoulder. Aimed. Her finger snaps to the trigger.

“Hey—!” Luke suddenly yells.

The gun fires. He shoves her shoulder.

The sound explodes through the valley. On the cliff across the way, a rock suddenly spits shards just a foot in front of the man’s face. He doesn’t flinch. The two of them vanish instantly into the dark sliver of a cave.

Kris stares. She spin on him, fury pouring out of her. “What the hell is wrong with you!”

“You could have hit her,” he lies.

“I wouldn’t—!”

“Luke—“ Sam warns.

He turns.

Every hollow face in the valley is staring up at them.

Luke stares back. “Fuck.”

“Oh no,” Castiel whispers, staring across the ledge to the outcrop fifty meters away. “What the hell are they doing?”

Dean follows his look, then glances down to the wendigos, and finally up to the cliff. “Giving us our chance.”

“What?”

“We go. Now.”

The hand hits his shoulder.

It’s not any easier the second time. The world snaps to again and Dean’s hauling him up, moving for the rocky ledge above them.

The wendigos aren’t far, but they’re moving, moving towards the others with open jaws and hollow, hungry expressions.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Luke swears, taking two steps back and swinging the pack off his shoulders.

“What’s happening?” Gavin asks, suddenly moving forward. He looks down the cliff and makes a whining horrified sound.

“Step back,” Kris commands. “Take a propane tank and your lighter.”

Sam moves forward. “Dean’s there. He’s moving for that cave.”

“What?” Luke turns. “With Castiel?”

“Yes.”

“No,” Luke moves forward. “No, he can’t go in there alone. He’ll kill him. He can’t go in alone.”

“They’re coming!” Kris cries.

The hollowed moans are getting closer. He can hear claws scrapping the frozen earth just meters away.

“Sam, get me over there. Now!” Luke yells.

“What about them?” Sam yells back.

“Go!” Kris insists. She aims. She shoots. There’s a cry. “Get Sandy!”

“They’ll die if we leave them here,” Sam says, eyes shining in the moonlight.

“Guys—“ Gavin starts.

“We won’t! Get her back!” Kris yells.

“Guys!”

“What?” Kris screams.

Gavin’s looking at the sky. Luke follows his gaze.

Something is glowing against the ink of the sky. Something bright.

The wendigos still. They’re looking to the heavens. Ducking low, cowering towards the ground. The forest is abruptly silent again.

The something bright grows brighter.

Luke squints. It looks like a star. Moving. Falling. Towards them. Quickly.

“What is that?”

Sam’s eyes grow dark. “They found us.”


	11. The Friend of my Enemy

Castiel stumbles to a stop. 

It’s so bright. Pale. And there’s something about it that fills his eyes, fills his mind with a sense of stillness even as it hurtles closer. 

“Dean…” 

Dean looks up. He sees it and his expression hardens. “Cas, move.” 

Castiel hardly hears him. It’s so brilliant that the valley is now almost lighter than it would be in the day… So intense… So close. 

“CAS!” Dean hurls himself at him, knocking him out of the way and down onto the ground just as the light shatters into where he was standing. 

It explodes. Brilliance and sound and fury. 

Castiel rolls, Dean right along with him. The rocks knock hard against his body at first, but by the time they come to a stop he doesn’t feel sore at all. 

Dean’s on his feet instantly. Cas rises beside him. 

The brightness glows on in a crater of stone and melting snow. But now it’s a calmed to a steady pulse as if breathing in and out. Castiel thinks there something moving inside the light but it’s hard to tell. It hurts to look. Then, all at once, the luminance unfolds. 

It opens, slices of it peeling back and up, celestial origami composed of starlight hailing the sky, towering tips at least five meters high. The pieces twist and snap, reminding Castiel of a flickering picture on a television: sharp edges, all brilliance, and in the middle… he can’t quite see. Or rather he mind can’t quite let him see. There’s something there, something that’s snapping back and forth between planes. His head begins to ache as his eyes press to see, to try to take it in. He has a strange feeling, as though he’s looking at some hidden picture puzzle that’s stretched across five dimensions, and then all at once, the shape cements. 

The light snaps away from the air with a rush, like the universe sucking in a breath. And there’s a girl left behind. Just a girl. 

She looks perfectly ordinary. Pretty. Her gold hair tumbles over her shoulder like any other twenty-year-old’s. Her jeans are neat, functional. T-shirt some graphic he can’t quite make out. Sweat-shirt on top. Simple leather jacket over that. 

Ordinary. Except for her eyes. 

 The light retreats from her eyes last, leaving behind only fury. “What have you done, Dean?” 

Luke peers through the darkness, suddenly far more overpowering now that the light has vanished. 

“What was that? What’s down there?” Gavin scrambles. “Did they stop? Are they still coming?” 

Luke looks down the side of the cliff. The wendigos have stopped, but they’re not still. They’re turning, shifting to face the new center of attention, which seems to be figures down below: one female, as far as he can tell, facing what must be Castiel and Dean. 

“We have to go. Down there. Now,” Sam says, voice rushed and breathless. 

“What was that?” Luke asks. 

“We have to go.” 

“Don’t leave us up here!” Gavin suddenly cries. “What happens if they come back?” 

Sam’s hand is already on Luke’s shoulder. “Dean’s in trouble.” 

And just like that, they’re gone. 

 

“What are you doing here, Dean?” the girl says. Her voice sharp and barbed with something else, something Castiel thinks might be hurt. 

“Know why I’m here. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t, Jo,” Dean answers firmly. Castiel can’t help but notice that he’s stepping forward slowly, positioning himself between her and him. “So, do yourself a favor and just fly on back upstairs.” 

“You’re an idiot, Dean,” the girl shoots. “You know this won’t work! You know that this isn’t how this is supposed to be.” 

“Since when is anything supposed to _be_?” 

“I’m warning you: this is your last chance to do what’s right.” 

“Don’t give me that old line..” 

“And don’t talk to me like we’re still friends!” she suddenly yells, eyes flashing brilliant and livid. “Don’t you dare Dean, not when you’re down here, with _them_ , instead of standing beside me, and Gordon, and our soldiers, where you belong!” 

There’s a rushed rustle against the air and then a sharp gasp. Luke and Sam stand just a few feet away. 

“Jo,” Sam says, “what are you doing here?” 

“This is all your fault, Sam. You just had to drag him right down with you. You won’t be happy until you’ve both fallen, will you?” 

“Hey—“ Dean tries. 

“You’re lucky. Both of you,” she says. “You’re lucky that I’m the one who made it down first. Gordon was halfway to the door and if he was here now instead of me he’d be breaking your spines like any other crawlers.” 

Dean’s jaw tightens. 

“Who the hell is this?” Luke asks. No one seems to hear him. 

“Jo,” Sam tries “you know this isn’t right. I know you do. Deep down. This is going to be the end of so much. Of everything! Don’t you see that? Don’t you see that we can’t let that happen?” 

“I see an end of this!” she gestures widely around her. “This shit-hole of a world they’ve managed to make! I see an end to a plague of sin, and pain, and loss.” Her eyes narrow. “Don’t you remember what they’re capable of - what they did, to all three of us?” 

“That’s enough, Jo,” Dean snaps. 

“It’s not enough. It won’t be enough until it ends. Until the righteous are with us and the sinners are where they belong. Why don’t you see that? Since when is it not us against the darkness? Us against the monsters that live inside them?” 

“Jo,” Sam tries. “Dad’s wrong. He’s so wrong. All of this is wrong. Michael is _wrong_.” 

“You won’t stop him. I won’t let you.” 

She looks so hurt, so betrayed that Castiel almost feels in his own chest as he watches her. 

“I’ll give you one chance. It’s more than you’ll get from anyone else,” she says. “And they’re coming for you too, Sam. Ava was just behind me. You left them just the same as Dean left us. I think we both know she’s not as forgiving as I am.” 

Sam twists his head back towards the sky, and there is another light growing. It’s distant, but getting closer. 

“Stop this now,” Jo says. Her eyes are shining with emotion, furious tears that are close to breaking free. She isn’t looking at Sam. She’s looking at Dean. “Please. Please, stop now. Please, come back home with us. You can still make this right. He’ll forgive you. He has to.” 

Dean’s voice is stone. “He doesn’t forgive anyone.” 

“He’ll forgive you,” she insists. “He knows Sam’s gone. He’s known that for awhile. But you, you could still come back!” 

Sam looks down, away from her face, his brow furrowing. 

“Dean,” she focuses, eyes tight on his. “Please.” 

He looks back, stare hard but strained. “Go home, Jo.” 

It’s quiet for a moment. The cold settles around them, silent and sharp. The wendigos are still in the moonlight, watching Jo with wide, hollow eyes. 

They don’t have to watch long. 

She pulls back. The emotion snaps from her face as if it was never there. Her jaw clenches. Her eyes are ice. Her back straightens, arms falling to her sides. Ready. Waiting. 

“Well,” she says quietly, voice steady and firm. “That makes it easy.” 

“Lucky us,” Dean says. He’s stepping close to Castiel, shielding him. Castiel’s not sure if he wants him to or not. 

“We’re stopping him, Jo,” Sam says. 

Her eyes flare, and then Castiel’s becomes very glad Dean’s standing in front of him. “Over my fucking corpse.” 

Dean glances at Sam. It’s hardly noticeable, but Castiel catches it. And so does Sam. Something passes between them. An idea, a plan. Sam’s hand eases to the back of Luke’s arm, and Castiel sees what they have to do. His hand finds its way around the gun inside his jacket. 

Sam and Dean take a step forward. Jo keeps her eyes on both of them. 

“You sure you’re ready for this? Two against one?” Dean asks. 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Jo returns. Behind them the wendigos start to shift, jaws opening, limbs uncurling. Luke turns, eyeing them warily, gun tight in his fingers. There’s so many the entire cliff-side seems to be made of them. 

The nearest begin to run for them. 

Castiel tightens his knuckles against his own gun. He swallows hard. 

“Hey,” Dean says suddenly. Castiel looks up. Dean’s looking back at him with a smile. “Watch this.” 

There’s a sound of empty space being torn in half. It’s utterly silent and impossibly loud, as light cracks out of nothing. 

The crack widens, pushing air aside, dazzling light bending space and spreading reality behind Dean’s back. 

Power pulses off in waves that make every hair perk up as shivers roll down Castiel’s skin. If he looks directly at the forms spreading behind Dean’s back, it’s as if there’s a dozen universes trying to exist at once between the folds of blinding light. There are layers to them, thousand years of trapped starlight in broken glass woven together with strands of dark matter. 

Wings, Castiel realizes. Dean has wings. 

They stretch, flex, pushing out on both sides. Dean’s still smiling, as if he knows exactly how stunned Castiel is. But he really doesn’t. How the hell could he? 

“Not bad, huh?” Dean smiles over his shoulder. 

“Dean!” Sam yells. The first wendigo launches for them. Luke’s moving in an instant, snapping his lighter open against his thigh and igniting the thing into a flaming scream. 

“Enough,” Jo bites. She makes a motion and her own wings are shoving aside dimensions to burst into life once again. She reaches over her shoulder, into the luminance, and grips. She pulls back again. There’s a high pitched sound and a sword, brilliant and pulsing as the wings themselves, comes with her. The wendigo’s corpse crashes to the ground beside them, skidding into their midst as a smoking mass. Luke’s already aiming at the next one. 

Jo grits her teeth and she’s running. She jumps, twenty feet, maybe more, wings spreading high and brilliant against the night sky as she turns towards Dean. 

He waits till the last moment. His hand slides around his side and rips out a blade, dragging it up in time to catch hers just as she hits. They meet with the shattering sound of two glass jets crashing together. 

There’s a howl and Castiel turns, snatching his lighter just in time to torch the outstretched claws. There’s more coming. So many more. 

“Luke!” he screams. But there’s no answer. Castiel frantically scans the area where Luke had been.  

He’s not there. 

Two figures are running for the cliff below the cave. 

 

“They’re fucked down there!” Luke screams after Sam as they hit the first rocks. 

“Dean can handle it!” Sam yells back. 

Luke looks over his shoulder as he starts to climb after him. Dean and Jo have separated, wings beating the air with sharp fury. Jo pulls her sword back to her side before diving again. Dean barely parries and Jo spins her wings, slicing in a way that forces him back a step, blocking the blow with both arms holding the sword firm. 

Castiel’s unloading canister after canister. There’s three smoldering bodies around them now, and more coming, skulking nearer, trying to get close without risking touching the flames. 

“It doesn’t look like he can handle it!” 

Sam doesn’t answer, which leaves him with little choice but to climb right after. The snow slips under his boots against the rocks, half melted from the leaping flames and the otherworldly light now brilliant in the valley. 

Luke hears something behind him. Close behind him. He turns with weapon already drawn, lighting up a spray of fire directly in the wendigo’s face. The weak skin splits, melting as the skull comes alive in the flames. There’s more, but the rolling ball of flesh that topples down the slope scatters them for the moment. Luke takes the opportunity to aim, knocking the next two back a handful of meters with shots to the head. 

“Come on!” Sam yells. “We’re almost at the top.” 

Luke swears, bringing his attention back to the rocks. He slips, slashing his knee. He ignores it. There’s just five meters left. Three. Less. Sam’s almost at the top already. It’s so bright. Brighter than it should be. Sam’s hands plants on the top of the ledge and suddenly Luke grabs his ankle. He pulls him back hard. 

The brilliance smashes to earth, directly where he was about to stand. Shards of rock spray through the air, knocking a few wendigos that managed to climb faster than them right off the ledge. Luke shields his eyes with one arm, hissing as the dust and brilliance bursts all around them. 

There’s a hand reaching for him through it all. A small hand with sharp nails that grip tight to his wrist and pull. Hard. 

Luke grits his teeth against the pain. He’s lifted upward. Someone is laughing. A women’s voice, and then everything goes bright again. 

He hits the rocks knees first. The woman’s still laughing wherever she is. By the time he pulls himself to his feet all be can see is… a bright black. Can black be bright? Sam’s standing in front of him, expression furious, jaw set, brow firm. Behind his back are…. They’re massive, and terrifying, and so utterly beautiful that for a moment he forgets everything. Until the laughter starts again. 

There’s a woman standing across from them, feet braced on the smoking crater. She has large eyes that might easily look lost and innocent, if they weren’t screaming just the opposite. Darker hair. Bangs. She’s short, with a quirk to her smile that Luke knows too well. It’s the sort of smile that likes the feeling of holding kittens for all the wrong reasons. 

“This is the guy?” the girl grins. “You’re not serious? This one? With the head like a Gumby villain? Christ, Sam, I really did over-estimate you.” 

“Let us through, Ava,” Sam grits. “I don’t want to hurt you but I will if I have to.” 

“Oh no!” Her wrist twists and one of the impossible swords spins out of the air with a sharp singing sound. “Come on Sam, who are you Tom Buchanan?” 

“Ava—“ Sam tries again. 

“You know how hard I had to fly to beat Jake down here, Sam? . He always thought you’d do it, but I thought he was full of it. None of us really knew. How could we?” 

There’s a sudden scrambling sound behind them. Luke turns just in time to land a shot in the wendigo as it leaps. The body’s thrown back, knocking into several others making their way up the cliff. 

Ava takes the chance, charging at Sam like a swallow darting across the sky. There’s a swift noise, air being sliced in two. Luke looks in time to see Sam parry a second blow, his own sword drawn, feet driven three feet back in the frozen ground by the strength of her blow. 

Luke raises his gun. Pain shoves against his back. The claws tear in four jagged lines, cutting deep into his skin. He spins with gritted teeth, smashing the side of the thing’s gaping face, earning enough time to burst it back with a spray of flames. 

The fight between Sam and Ava rages on. Ava’s giggles as she retreats back, drawing as she . Sam to swing at her. They move so fast it’s almost impossible to keep track of. Sam aims for her neck but she ducks and stabs at his gut. He catches the blow against a wing with a sound of steel sliding across glass. He turns the blade again and she catches it: wings slicing, swords singing. Luke’s surprised that they’re not cutting the air itself to pieces. 

The wendigos keep coming, more arriving each second.  

There’s too many. His canister’s too light. Empty. He only has one shot left. There’s not time to reload. He knows he shouldn’t, but he has to. 

“SAM!” 

Sam lets out a yell, smashing Ava back so hard the sword in her hand shatters. With a scream she’s thrown against the rocky wall of the cliff meters away, spraying dust and debris. 

Sam turns and Luke doesn’t need to be told to shut his eyes. 

The light explodes, hitting every wendigo that’s made its way above the cliff. They freeze for a moment in the air as they’re thrown back before bursting into a fine mist of ash and dust. 

Luke’s hands scramble, hurrying to reload while there’s still time.  

“LOOK OUT!” 

Ava’s closed fist smashes into the side of Sam’s jaw like a sledge hammer on the side of a mountain smacks around them and Sam staggers, expression going dull and dazed. His jaw slackens, thick blood dripping from one side. 

Her hand snaps out, smile feral and sharp. She gets him around the neck almost too easily, nails digging in as her tiny body lifts all Sam’s height a foot off the ground. 

He’s not fighting. He looks as though he wants to but the wings are flapping weakly, desperately. He’s drained. The blast was too much. 

Luke aims. He shoots. The bullet knocks straight through Ava’s temple. 

She flinches, as though a mosquito’s bitten her. She doesn’t stop squeezing Sam’s throat. 

Luke grits. He shoots again. This time he hits her extended elbow. Her arm buckles awkwardly. Sam drops six inches closer to the ground. The wound seals on her arm almost as soon as it’s made.. She starts laughing again, eyes shining, fingers tightening, blood oozing our between them. 

Luke’s breath is hard in his chest, heart thudding up in his throat. He knows all she has to do is look at him. And he doesn’t care. He dives for her. 

He seems to take her by surprise. The body falls as easy as any hundred-and-twenty-pound girl’s. And he doesn’t let go. 

They roll together as Sam crumbles to the ground. She hisses with fury. Luke tries to get an upper hand, grabbing for something, anything. He plants a knee and twists, landing right on top of her. 

He punches before she gets a chance to think. Hard to the jaw. His fingers crack against the stone of her skeleton. A pained sound escapes him and Ava’s already smiling . It’s her turn. 

She hits him. He’s surprised his head doesn’t snap clean off. He’s even more surprised he doesn’t fly four meters back to crash into the climbing wendigos. But she’s got a hand on his collar, keeping him close.  

She stands, dragging him with her. He tries to think, tries to do anything against the hammering pain thudding through his face His nose and teeth are bleeding. The hand he has free fumbles at his hip as she raises her fist again. He drives a blade into her thigh and twists hard. 

Ava lets out a sharp sound, dropping him . He hits the ground. Tries to move. Tries to think. Where’s Sam? 

He’s still where she left him. He’s attempting to stand. His throat’s still torn open, his face bleeding. He seems barely capable of keeping conscious, let alone making it upright. 

“Cute, really fucking cute,” Ava grits as she rips the blade out of her leg. 

Luke scrambles back but not fast enough. She grabs a sharp fistful of his hair, hauling him back up to her. 

“Your pet’s got teeth, Sam, I’ll give him that,” Ava calls, “maybe I’ll take them out. One at a time...” 

She squeezes Luke’s jaw so hard he can’t help snapping it open.  

“HEY!” a voice yells. 

Ava turns. 

Her head snaps back. There’s a new hole in it, the size of a quarter.  

Her grip on Luke’s hair loosens and he falls back onto his abused knees. 

Kris stands on the edge of the cliff, hunting rifle aimed. 

“MOVE!” she yells. 

Luke throws himself to one side. Gavin swipes a lighter. Flames ignite across the air until Ava’s nothing but a flaming scream. 

She panics, hands tearing, wings ripping back and forth, trying to blow out the fire. Sam staggers upright. He still looks weak, but he manages to get a foot up. He kicks her as hard in the chest as he can. The flaming figure flies, falling down the cliff, lighting and knocking wendigos down with it all the way. 

 

Castiel hears the scream. He doesn’t have time to see where it’s coming from. There’s wendigo ash smeared all across his face, along with a fair amount of blood from that one that caught his lip with the edge of a claw and his eyebrow with another. 

He’s running low on propane, down to the flare gun. It’s hard to aim, and takes longer to load. It’s lucky that the snapping, singing, ground shaking, bone jarring of angelic fighting is intimidating enough to keep the majority of the monsters back. 

A ten foot shape suddenly lolls to its full height in front of him, rotten spittle flying in his face as it’s jaw drops open to roar. 

Castiel shoots. The flare tears right through its open mouth and the back of its throat to land in the scrambling creatures ten yards behind. The flames spread from the hole in the back of its neck to consume its head in one rush. 

“WATCH OUT !” Dean suddenly yells. A hand grabs Castiel’s shoulder and pulls him arm to one side. A wendigo shatters to the ground, right where he’d been standing. 

Jo lashes out with a sudden flourish and Dean swears, just managing to catch her blade while shoving Castiel out of the way. 

“Is this what you gave us up for?” Jo snarls. “To babysit?” 

“Babysit? When’s the last time you saw a human kill fifteen wendigos?” Dean shoots. One of his cheeks is bleeding in a clean line where she caught him. His knuckles are broken almost everywhere. One leg is dragging more than it should. But he’s smiling. 

The ground around them is torn to pieces, all ripped up earth and stone, snow-melt steaming into the air against the cold. Castiel scrambles to get to his feet again through it all. He catches his breath. He’s gotten this far. He’s not fucking it up now. 

Jo suddenly leaps, spinning against the night sky. Her wings slash back and she dives. Dean catches the blow with a grit of his teeth, eyes flaring into light for just a second. 

There’s a rush to Castiel’s left. He loads the flare gun in the two seconds it takes for the wendigo to close the distance. This one he gets in the chest, the flaming projectile snaking fiery tendrils all along its body before bursting into full flame with a hollow scream. 

“Fight like you mean it!” Jo yells at Dean between blows. 

“You first!” Dean shoots right back. 

She closes a fist and smashes it right across his face, again, and again, and again. He drops to one knee with a staggered step, expression shocked. She lets out a yell and crashes her knee into the underside of his jaw. 

Cas’ hands scramble. He aims and shoots. The flare hisses through the air. Her wings shift without her looking, bouncing it off and into the crowded monsters without a thought. 

She steps closer to Dean’s fallen body. He manages to stagger back to one foot. She lets out a cry, swinging at him again, but he dodges, slipping to one side. She staggers forward with her momentum and he gets his sword firm in his hand again. 

He’s still smiling but there’s something forced there. “That’s better.” 

Kris is running for the split in the rock before Luke can stop her. 

“KRIS!” He starts to run, head still banging, jaw still bleeding. “HOLD ON!” 

The rock slips slickly under his boots. They are close to the cave. Closer than he realized. He can hear Sam behind him trying to keep up, feet scuffing over the stones. 

Kris skids to a stop in front of the opening in the rock. Luke braces his own hands against it, catching her suddenly, wrapping and arm tight around her neck to stop her from plunging inside. 

“Let go!” she screams, twisting, slashing. 

“You’ll get yourself killed!” 

“I don’t care!’ 

“…Kris?” 

It’s a new voice, weak and wavering. It’s coming from inside. 

Kris’ breathe catches. “Sandy?” 

There’s a girl in the dark. Her hair is the same inky wire as Kris’, her body more solid, eyes larger. Younger. Dirty. Bloodied. She’s kneeling on the ground. They wouldn’t be able to see her if it weren’t for the glowing symbols pulsing under her knees, sending her face into a blue-white light. 

There’s a figure standing just in front of her. Tall, his back to them. 

“Kris,” the girl chokes. “Help me!” 

The man turns. He looks at Luke. 

For a moment, just a moment, the world goes still. 

It’s him. Luke’s not sure why, or how, but he’d somehow thought, through all of this, that maybe, just maybe, it still might not be him. But he knows the man in the cave. He doesn’t even look different. 

“Michael?” Luke breathes out the name. 

Michael grabs the girl by her hair. His knife slides across her throat in one fast deep line. 

 

A scream cuts through the night. It sounds like Kris. 

Jo stops, drawn to the direction of the scream. Dean and Castiel follow her look. It’s coming from the cliff.  

The air around them contracts, as the fabric of reality sucks in a breath, and then, exhales it roughly. All around them the wendigos begin to turn their heads to the sky, hollow faces crying like broken coyotes to the frozen stars. 

“He did it,” Jo gasps and disappears 

“Fuck!” Dean swears. His hand snatches Castiel’s arm and the world rips away. 

They land hard. Castiel falls to the ground and Dean’s not there to catch him this time. Instead, he’s running after Jo 

Luke’s yelling. Kris struggles in his arms, screaming through gritted teeth as tears rip down her face. She knocks her head back, smashing Luke’s. His arms loosen. She lunges free with his knife in her hand. “KRIS!” Luke yells. She reaches the cave mouth. 

Joe slams two closed fists against the side of the cliff. A deep sound echoes, like the bones of the mountain cleaving in two. Rocks plunge down towards them all at once, smashing to the ground, sealing the cave. 

Luke throws himself into the opening after Kris but Castiel can’t see them anymore, dust and stone burst out of the opening, closing it from view. 

“DAMMIT!” Dean roars. 

Jo has vanished again. . 

Sam’s thrown himself at the sealed cave. He’s pulling rock after rock away from the collapsed opening. A shoulder pops free, then an arm. Luke groans. Castiel hurries, staggering over to help pull him free. 

Luke’s curled himself over Kris but she still doesn’t look good. Certainly unconscious. There’s a bone sticking out of her left arm just above the wrist. 

Gavin swears next to them, lost and afraid. 

Luke hisses, trying to stand, pulling the girl with him out of the rubble and the ruin. 

Castiel turns, staring down behind them. In the valley things are starting to change. The wendigos are climbing the cliff faster. The flaming skeletons that they left behind, slowly, achingly, are beginning to move once again. In the middle of it all, a burnt and crisped Ana staggers to her feet and tries, with jolting movements, to open her wings. 

“It’s too late,” Cas hears himself whisper. “We’re too late.” 

The wendigos are only a meters below them. His flares are gone. The propane is gone. Everything’s gone. 

“Get us the fuck out of here,” Luke grits. One of his hands rips the charm off of Kris’ neck. Gavin regains his senses enough to hurl his own away. Castiel takes one last look: the mountain, the smell of scalded flesh and burnt hair, the skin prickling electricity of angels and seals sizzling in the air. Dean’s hand snatches Cas’ in the dark and all of it, vanishes. 

 


	12. Sutures

Nothing much ever changes about hospitals. It can be Washington or Florida. They alway feel the same; like some shared neutral ground between white walls and echoing tiles. It feels timeless inside the long corridors. The light always shining: dull and rather tired despite itself, but never exhausted. It shines, and life moves on, heedless of hour or inconvenience. Lives start. Lives end. Lives shake. And the hospital turns. Figures move through its twists and turns, wearing the same drained colors, the same simplistic shapes. The chairs, the vending machines, the bathrooms. Always the same. The sounds: steps, loud and soft, the clicking of pens, hollow and sharp. Soft voices. Faces telling the same stories: lost suddenly when moments ago everything was so familiar, or desperately seeking anything to draw attention, even overly quick to smile, eager to insist that they didn’t really belong here and it would only be a moment before they moved away from this sealed limbo of a place.

Castiel’s not sure what his face looks like.

Every few moments a stretcher rushes by. He’ll catch a flash of hiking clothing, a gasp of pain, a rush of doctor’s hurried voice, and then its passed.

Gavin’s tapping his foot. Castiel glances down at it. It makes a soft sound against the tile pattern of the floor. His hands are closed tight around the ward he’d had around his neck.

Luke’s leaning against one of the walls a few feet away. His face is decorated with a few cuts but his hand is better. Cas isn’t sure when that happened. He suspects Sam used the last of his energy snapping things back into place as he pulled him out of the rubble. He wishes he hadn’t. Kris’ injuries seem more serious than his had been. 

Luke stares at the patterns of scuff marks on the floor, brows furrowed, mouth set. That’s all he’s been doing for at least an hour now. 

Castiel doesn’t know where the angels are. They left them in the car. But who knows where they are now. Maybe they ran. Maybe they’ll never see them again.

It had been a difficult trip to the car. Sam almost collapsed by the time they reappeared at the foot of the trail, and Dean seemed too occupied with keeping everyone upright to handle much else. Unconsciousness saved Kris the pain of the bone sticking straight through her arm, but there were other fears with any wound like that and they were lucky to get to the hospital as soon as they did.

Another stretcher rolls past.

“Multiple lacerations to the torso and arms…“ The voices fade as it passes, vanishing down the hall.

Castiel thinks Gavin might be crying. He can’t tell exactly. He isn’t looking at him. He’s staring out at exactly nothing. 

Maybe Gavin isn’t tapping his foot. Maybe he’s just shaking.

“Excuse me.”

Castiel and Gavin look up instantly. There’s an older man standing in front of them, green shapeless scrubs and circular glasses low on his sharp nose.

“Are you the ones who brought in Kris Jones?”

“Yes,” Castiel answers. “Is she alright?”

The doctor’s expression is set. “She suffered a rather severe compound fracture in her right arm. She also broke two ribs and appears to be suffering from a concussion.”

“Yeah but is she alright?” Gavin manages.

The doctor frowns at him. “She is stabilized. We’ve done what we can for the arm for now. The bone is secured and braced, but she will need surgery soon.”

“Is she in pain?” Castiel asks.

“We’ve given her medication to manage to pain, along with antibiotics to fight any infection. You said this happened hiking?”

“Yes,” Castiel answers.

“It’s very dangerous to be hiking this time of year, especially at night.”

“She wanted to find her sister,” Gavin says, his voice hollow. 

“Oh,” the doctor seems to connect things. “Well… that was foolish. I’ve contacted her parents. They’ll be arriving soon. They’ve already lost one daughter this week. If you were truly her friends you would have told her not to risk taking two children away from them.”

The doctor turns away.

“Is she awake? Can we see her?” Gavin calls to his back.

The doctor turns. “Only for a moment. She needs to rest and the O.R. will be ready for her soon.”

Gavin stands up instantly. Castiel follows. He’s not sure what else to do. He turns to look for Luke, but the wall is suddenly empty.

Kris’ room has the persistent sameness that the rest of the place holds to. Dull bluish light from fluorescent bulbs above. White walls. Pale tiles. Castiel peers through the window in the door, keeping behind Gavin, even as he pushes the door open and hurries in.

Kris is staring at the ceiling. Her eyes look tired, empty and half closed. There’s a brace on her arm, a few stitches against her forehead.

Gavin instantly moves for the chair beside the bed, pulling it closer. “Kris, Kris, hey, how are you?”

She closes her eyes, taking a deep breathe.

“They said that you’ll need surgery, but it seems like it’s alright. It seems like you’re going to be fine! Your parents are coming.” Gavin rambles, hands fluttering uncomfortably in his lap. Kris’ eyes meet Castiel’s where he’s standing at the back of the room. 

“I’m sure they’ll be here soon,” Gavin continues. “They’ll be so happy that you’re alright. You won’t believe it Kris. So many people are coming in. They’re all… It doesn’t matter. We’re here now. And we made it, and we’ll get you home soon and I’ll go home and mom and dad probably don’t even know that I was gone—“

Kris puts her free hand on his. “Gavin.”

He falls silent, looking up at her, eyes frantic but trying to convince themselves they aren’t.

“Gavin,” she repeats slowly. Her voice is rough. “Can you go meet my parents? I want to make sure someone shows them where I am and tells them I’m alright.”

“Yeah, yes!” he says, standing quickly. “Yes, I’ll go wait for them. They’ll probably come in the front so I’ll wait there, and as soon as they’re here I’ll bring them right back. Yeah?”

She tries to smile at him. It doesn’t quite work. “Thanks.”

He hurries from the room. Castiel isn’t sure whether he should follow him, but something tells him he’s supposed to stay so he does, waiting with his back to the wall as the doors swings closed and Gavin’s footsteps hurry away down the hall.

It’s very quiet in the room. Every few moments a machine beside Kris’ bed makes a dull beep.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Castiel says finally.

Kris is looking at the ceiling again. She doesn’t speak.

Castiel clears his throat. “I should leave. I’m sure you want to rest.”

“It’s his fault.”

Castiel turns. “What?”

Kris’ voice is tight. “That other one. Your friend. With the blond hair. It’s his fault.”

Castiel frowns. “What are you talking about?”

Kris’ eyes are shining. Her face is very still.

“He stopped me. I was going to shoot him. And he stopped me.”

“Shoot who?” Castiel asks.

Kris looks at him. “The man in the cave. The man who killed my sister.”

Castiel tries to sound comforting. “Kris, there’s things you don’t understand about this.”

“Oh, I understand,” she says. “I aimed for the man when he was on the cliff, and he moved my gun. I ran for the cave and he stopped me. I tried to get inside, and he held me back. He knew that man. He said his name. He said ‘Michael’.”

Castiel feels his throat tighten. “Things happened very fast. If you had gone in that cave, you would have died.”

“Like Sandy.”

Castiel doesn’t know how to answer.

Kris looks right at him. Her eyes are tired, hopeless, lost. But there’s something else as well. Something burning.

“He’s lying to you.”

Castiel holds her stare.

“I don’t know him. I don’t know you. But I know, I know that he stopped me from killing that man in the cave.” Her eyes shine against the blue light. “He will never kill that man.”

Castiel swallows, looking away. “I don’t… There’s too much killing. It needs to stop. That’s what matters.”

Kris voice softens. “You’re a good person.”

Castiel almost laughs.

“No,” she continues. “You are. I can tell. You’re not like him. You’re not a liar.”

Castiel shakes his head. “I’m not a ranger.”

“You weren’t afraid of those things. Not like us. You’ve seen them before.”

“Not like that,” Castiel says.

“But you’ve seen them. You knew how to kill them. That’s what you do? That’s why you came here?”

Castiel swallows. “We wanted to stop it.”

“You did. He didn’t.”

“You’re wrong,” Castiel says. “He wants to stop it. He’s not what you think he is.”

“He looks at the world like it’s dead already. What makes you think he cares what happens to it?”

Castiel looks up, meeting her look with firm certainty. “Because he stopped you from running into that cave.”

Kris looks away, turning her head back against her pillow.

It’s quiet for a long moment.

“This is really what you do?” she asks, voice softer than it was before. “Every day?”

Castiel stares down at the floor in front of him. “Yes.”

Kris stares off into nothingness. “I think… that’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Eventually, steps sound again, off down the hallway. Castiel doesn’t say goodbye. He steps out just before two people turn the corner, a man and a woman, rushing towards Kris’ room with strained, terrified faces.

Castiel watches them through the window. The man holds Kris’ hand tightly. The woman pushes the hair from her forehead with the tips of her fingers. They touch her as if they’re unsure if she’ll slip off if they don’t hold tight enough or crumble apart if they press too tightly. Kris stares past them, at things beyond, days that haven’t passed yet where they will be a family of three instead of four.

Castiel hears soft voices, down the hall. 

Luke’s speaking to Gavin. They’re talking closely, at the end of the hallway. Gavin’s nodding, listening carefully. He still looks so afraid. Finally, Luke puts a hand on his shoulder and they part, Gavin off down the hall, Luke moving towards Castiel .

As he gets closer part of Castiel wants to step back. Away. But he doesn’t. When Luke reaches him, his expression isn’t what it has been. Strangely enough it’s almost the same as the one on the girl Castiel left in the dully lit room behind him.

“We should go,” Luke says.

“What did you tell him?” Castiel asks.

“What’s coming. What to be ready for. What he can do.”

Castiel feels something tighten behind his chest. “He’s nineteen, Luke.”

Luke doesn’t blink. “You were fifteen. I was six. He’s nineteen. The world is what it is, and we don’t get to change the rules.”

He moves past him. Castiel stares at the space he’s left behind.

“Come on,” Luke calls back, voice flat. “I sent the angels ahead with the minivan to a motel three towns over. We’ll take my truck. Meet them there. We need to sleep.”

It takes him a moment to follow.

They step out of the sliding doors. The shared, timeless world of the hospital slips away behind them. In the parking lot it’s dark and smells of cold. While they were inside, it has started to snow. 

The truck heads on, over salt-stained roads, as night holds grips darkness with weaker and weaker fingers, and grey begins to slip in. 

The radio fizzles.

_“—Ten reports of serious animal attacks have come in from Eagle’s Landing, and the local hospital continues to report more patients with major injuries. The local authorities are asking all civilians to stay indoors as a rabid wolf pack or several may be causing this chaos. In other news, the still unknown illness rippling through Manhattan remains a mystery and the current counts has over three hundred—“_

Luke switches off the radio.

The minivan is waiting when they finally pull into the tired motel parking lot as the sky is slipping from grey to blue with hints of gold on the tops of the trees.

He doesn’t see the angels. He’s not sure if he’s glad or not. He’s not sure what he feels just now.

He waits in the car while Luke goes into the office, the only lonely light on in the entire place.

When he returns Castiel follows him to a splintery door with a tilted number three hanging from it. Luke doesn’t hand him a key, so he follows him in, and falls onto the nearest bed as soon as he sees it.

It takes longer than he thought it would to fall asleep. Light slinks in through the cracks in the curtains drawn across the window. The smell of mold and waking heaters settles in around him. He listens to Luke’s steady breathing, to the occasional creak in the cheap mattress. And eventually, sleep finds him. 

 

Luke doesn’t sleep long. He guesses it’s before noon when his eyes open and decide they’re not going to shut again. 

Castiel’s still asleep. He makes hardly any noise at all. He’d be easy to mistake for dead if his back wasn’t rising just a touch with each silent breath.

Luke sits up properly, and watches him for a moment. Maybe longer.

He really did turn out well. When he was little Luke had thought he would end up looking utterly out of place with the rest of their family. He’d been a bit porky, with a round shapeless sort of face and eyes that peered too much to be comfortable for anyone in the same room. He’d been short for his age too, but he wasn’t now. His full face had squared off. His weight had propelled into height. Although he still peered.

His hair does that same thing Michael’s always did in motel beds. It presses on both sides and sticks up straight in the middle. Dark and thick and ill-behaved. But his face looks different than Michael’s ever did while he was sleeping. He looks peaceful. Rested. Michael always looked like he’d lost a fight with sleep, finally been pounded into the submission of rest and even unconscious he wasn’t forgetting that.

Luke lets himself watch him for one moment more before standing. He takes a firm stretch, and deep breath. He walks to the door and opens it.

It’s what he expected to find. They’re both leaning against the truck. Waiting.

Luke looks back at the angels. “Alright. Get inside.”

It doesn’t take Castiel long to wake up, and it’s hardly ten minutes before they’re both dressed, and all four of them are sitting spread out across the motel room as the bright winter light pulls itself in through the window and the heater creaks, attempting to break the silence from its place against the bathroom wall. 

Castiel’s sitting far back on his bed, pressed away from the angels. Dean’s standing beside the chair Sam’s seated in with a stern expression. He looks as if he wants to pace but is resisting it. Sam still doesn’t look very well. He’s pale, and there’s dark circles sunken in around his eyes. Luke leans against his own bed, hands braced firmly and attention focused. 

“So,” he begins, “ready to stop lying?”

“We didn’t lie,” Sam says weakly.

Castiel snorts from the bed. 

“Hey,” Dean snaps. “We didn’t.”

“Right, just avoided certain truths,” Luke returns.

“And so what?” Dean says sharply. He’s been running hot since the night before and it doesn’t seem like he’s cooled down any since. “There’s things you can’t understand. You wouldn’t understand any of this if we hadn’t risked everything to come down here and tell you in the first place, so I think we can avoid exactly what we decide is avoidable.”

“Even when your ex-girlfriend tries to fry us all alive?” Luke asks.

“She’s not—“ Dean turns away before he gets too angry, containing his frustration with a grumbled sound.

“Jo’s like a sister. To both of us. We’ve known her for a long time,” Sam says. “She and Dean shared a squad for centuries.”

“And Ava,” Castiel adds, “she was one of your squad-mates as well?”

“One of mine,” Sam continues, voice weak but persistent. “Elite angelic squads come in groups of three. Dean was with Jo and Gordon, I was with Ava and Jake. We were sent on missions, to earth.”

“What sort of missions?” Castiel asks.

“It doesn’t matter,” Dean says, turning back. “None of this matters. What matters is we’ve lost another seal, and the next one is going to make the last look like a fucking Dick Van Dyke rerun.”

Luke leans forward, focusing on the angels firmly. “You haven’t been telling us the truth. That doesn’t inspire confidence. If you want our help, if you want anything, you will level with us. Now.”

Dean tightens his jaw but Sam gets there first.

“We did lie to you.”

“Sammy—” Dean tries.

“No,” Sam interrupts, “it’s true. We did.”

“Then what’s the truth?” Castiel asks.

Sam looks to him, and then back to Luke. “The truth is heaven wants the world to end.”

Luke almost laughs. He manages to stop himself. “Of course it does.”

“I don’t understand,” Castiel frowns. “Why?”

“This whole apocalypse deal,” Dean says, “works out pretty well for a lot of folks upstairs.”

“Many angels have been waiting for centuries for someone to open the seals. When your father failed, there were many who mourned their great victory that would never come. So when suddenly the echoes started sounding again, and heaven began to feel the presence of the Lamb, well, things began to fall into motion again.”

“Jo mentioned your father,” Luke says.

“Yeah, well, Dad’s always been pretty hot on the idea of humans flickering out of existence,” Dean says.

Sam looks even more tired than when they started. “Dad’s a powerful general in heaven, one of the inner circle that commands all forces. He thinks this is God’s will. He thinks it’s what needs to be. And he sent orders, orders that all of us had to do what we could to help Michael bring about the end that was promised.”

“But you didn’t. You came here. To us,” Castiel says.

“That’s right.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re just that fucking stupid,” Dean grumbles.

Luke focuses on Sam. “How did you find us? Have you been watching us? Since our father tried the first time?”

“No,” Sam says quietly. He’s not looking at him. “Its been longer than that.”

“How long?” Castiel presses.

Sam leans forward onto his knees with a deep breath. “When people pray, angels can hear. Heaven can hear.”

Luke rolls his eyes. “Right well, you’re obviously listening very carefully.”

Sam ignores him. “There’s many prayers, so many that for most of us it becomes just a hum. We’re not supposed to get involved with humans, not like that. And so most prayers are tuned out. Have been for a long time. But sometimes… sometimes a prayer will sound louder than the others. Sometimes someone has such faith, such strength and goodness in their soul that their prayer will echo like a blast throughout heaven and it’s answered without anyone giving an order, without anyone telling it to be so. Someone has to be very special to pray like that.”

“Someone like the Lamb?” Castiel asks.

“No,” Sam looks back at him. “Someone like your mother.”

Luke feels a sharp twist behind his chest. It catches him by surprise. So does the scratch at the back of his throat. And the way he suddenly can’t seem to speak.

Castiel glances from Sam to Dean. “I don’t understand. Our mother? She prayed to you?”

“Not to us. She just prayed. Very hard. It was the last thing she did.”

Luke’s hands tighten on the bed frame behind him. He glares at the ugly carpet under his feet.

Sam gazes sadly out at the air in front of him. “She prayed that someone would look after her children. She prayed that someone would make sure they were safe.”

“And you heard her?”

“Everyone did,” Dean says, “it was like a fucking megaphone.”

“And her prayer was answered?” Castiel asks. He doesn’t seem to think that’s likely.

“In a way,” Sam says. “These sort of prayers, they come together in a way no one really understands. The universe shifts on its own and things align. But things aren’t as simple as prayers just coming true.”

“Then what happened?”

“You were given angels. Each one of you.”

Castiel furrows his brow. “I don’t have an angel. I’d never seen one before you.”

Dean looks uncomfortable. “Yeah, well, I didn’t really see any reason to pop by.”

Castiel’s expression shifts as the realization strikes. “You…Its been you? Since then? I was three years old when she died.”

“It hasn’t ‘been me’, okay,” Dean insists firmly. “It wasn’t anyone! We had orders, alright, not to interact, not under any circumstances. Don’t interfere. Don’t listen. The fact that we felt itches at the back of minds sometimes, didn’t mean anything. We didn’t go to humans. Those are the rules. And we followed them.”

Luke’s trying to listen but it’s difficult. It’s hard to focus with so many images rushing through his head. His mother’s eyes, frantic and terrified in the dark, pushing him upwards. The feeling of cold bark under his weak fingers. The sound of a scream in the night. A face from picture books, sitting down on the edge of his bed, telling him it would be alright. Sam. Sam smiling weakly, sadly, when there was no one else to smile with.

“You came to me,” Luke says. His voice sounds strange in his ears. He looks at Sam. The same face. Just the same. For so long. “That was the first time I dreamed about you. The night she died.”

Sam looks back at him, weak and almost lost. He swallows and nods once.

“Yeah, well,” Dean grumbles, “some of us aren’t as good at taking orders.”

“That’s how you know him?” Castiel asks, voice suddenly hard and stern. “He’s been coming to you since our mother died? You told me you didn’t know him.”

“I didn’t think I did,” Luke snaps suddenly. He catches himself, turning back to the floor. “I thought I made him up.”

Castiel stares at the empty space in front of him. There’s something dark behind his expression. “You thought I was Michael. When you first showed up. On Christmas. You thought I was Michael.”

“We always assumed Dean had Michael,” Sam says. “He’d always obeyed the orders and not listened, not interfered, so we always assumed that since I had Luke he had Michael.”

Castiel’s gone quiet. He’s staring at the bedspread. He doesn’t seem happy with that answer.

“When the orders came, after we realized Michael was unlocking the seals again,” Sam continues, “I knew that we couldn’t follow them. All of heaven began to prepare to sweep through the world as soon as the gates opened. I asked Dean to come with me, and we snuck through before the rest. We came to you.”

Castiel doesn’t look up. “Why?”

“It’s not fair,” Sam answers. “Humanity doesn’t deserve to be wiped away as if you were nothing. No matter what you’ve done. Heaven is wrong. Our father’s wrong.”

“I wasn’t asking you,” Castiel says. He looks directly at Dean. “Why break the rules now and not then?”

Dean seems uncomfortable but he smiles all the same, easy and open. “I like the music. Heaven can’t do shit with a guitar.”

Castiel doesn’t laugh. No one does.

Luke stands suddenly. “I need some air.” He crosses the room quickly.

“Luke—“ Castiel calls, but he’s already opened the door. It shuts before Castiel can continue. 

The cold air wraps up around him. He doesn’t have a coat but it doesn’t matter. He steps further out into it, letting the frozen breeze wrap around him. Cleansing. Consuming.

He takes a few deep breathes and tries not to think. But he can’t stop it. Things have become too clear, this knowledge suddenly shoving into his brain like a shovel and turning over fresh thoughts with memories wriggling to the surface like worms.

_“I’m afraid.”_

_“I know.”_

Luke tries to breathe but it’s suddenly much harder than it should be.

_“I don’t want to die.”_

_“I don’t want you to.”_

_A pause. He could feel himself shaking. “Will you stop it?”_

_Another pause. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”_

_He could feel him close. He’d seemed as if he wanted to touch him but he hadn’t. He’d never heard him sound so afraid. He’d never heard himself sound so afraid._

_“I don’t want to go to hell.”_

_“I don’t want you to.”_

_A hand on his. Tentative. Afraid. Luke held it firmly._

_He’d looked at him. Eyes barely visible in the darkness. He’d never have said it if he was awake. But he wasn’t. This was just a dream._

_“Will you come for me? Will you save me?”_

_The eyes had stared back. So sad. So lost. And then, hardened. Terrifying and so filled with something he didn’t understand._

_“I will. I promise.”_

Luke’s throat tightens. Breathing is almost impossible. He shut his eyes, leaning back against the icy skin of the truck.

_“You just have to be quiet, Luke, please, just be a good boy for a few more minutes.”_

_The hands had been warm as they pushed him into the branches. Warmer than anything else in the chill of the night._

_Her breath had caught in the air. White. Her eyes the same color as his._

_“Can you do that for me? Can you stay here, and be as small and quiet as a mouse?”_

_“I don’t like mice.”_

_“An owl then. A big silent owl up in his tree.” Her voice was shaking._

_“I don’t want you to go.”_

_A branch snapped. His mother’s head turned. Silence. She looked back to him with fresh terror in her eyes._

_“I know you don’t, and I don’t want to go. But I have to. Just for a moment. So please, please, can you stay here for me and be as quiet as you can?”_

_He’d swallowed. He’d nodded._

_She’d kissed his hand. Lips warm and strong. “I will be back so soon. So soon.”_

_He’d stared down at her, fingers clutching at the bark of the tree, voice muffled by the snow covered forest. “You will?”_

_“I will. I promise.”_

Luke bends over sharply. The charm around his neck swings free. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Michael’s face floods in front of his eyes. 

Michael young and afraid. Hand tight in his. 

Michael’s fury, his fist crashing into Luke’s jaw on a lonely road in the middle of nowhere. 

Michael. Expression empty. Nothing. Cutting that girl’s throat.

Luke grasps at the truck behind him. His head swims. He feels as if he might be sick. 

“Hey?”

Luke looks up. There’s a girl. She’s standing a few feet away. 

She looks wary, as if she knows she shouldn’t be talking to him and is worried she shouldn’t have started. She’s wearing a pink jacket. There’s a horse patch sewn over the right breast pocket. Her hair is curly, brown, jammed under a pink hat of a slightly darker shade. Pink cheeks in the cold. She doesn’t look more than eleven.

She’s sucking a grape lollipop. Loudly.

“Are you alright?” she asks around the lollipop. 

Luke swallows. There’s a bitter taste in his mouth that won’t go away. “Fine.”

She raises an eyebrow skeptically, popping the thing out of her mouth. “You don’t look fine.”

Luke groans and tries to straighten up again. It works reasonably well. The panicked sick feeling is still fluttering around his stomach. He tries to breathe steadily and that almost helps.

“You look sick. And cold,” the girl says critically.

“No, I’m alright,” he insists. His voice feels a little more steady. 

“You shouldn’t be out without a coat, at least that’s what mom says.”

“I just stepped out,” Luke says.

“To smoke?” she asks.

“No,” he says, “why would you say that?”

“That’s why dad always ‘steps out’.”

“Right,” Luke tries to focus on the girl a little better. “Is your dad around?”

“No,” she says, and then seems to catch herself as stranger-danger PSAs flood back to her, “but my mom is. She’s back in our room. It’s right there.” The girl points behind her to a door just a few meters away.

“Right,” Luke says. “Did she make you put your coat on?”

“No,” the girl says, “she’s on the phone. Working. But I know she would have. So I did it.”

“That’s very responsible.”

The girl shrugs. “I’d be cold if I didn’t put it on.”

A wind suddenly pushes past them and Luke shivers, bare forearms already going numb against the chill.

She takes another loud slurp at her lollipop. “Are you sure you’re okay?” 

“Yes.”

“Do you feel sick?”

He looks at her and suddenly he doesn’t want to lie. “A little.” 

She nods knowingly, then fumbles in her pocket. She pulls out a lollipop. “You can have this. It’s supposed to help.”

Luke looks at the offered lollipop. “What makes you say that?”

“They give them out at the doctor. They wouldn’t do that if they didn’t help.”

Luke can’t help smiling just a touch. “It’s grape.”

“I know. I ran out of all the good flavors.”

Luke takes the lollipop. He looks back at the girl, eyeing her more thoroughly as he unwraps the candy.

“I like your jacket.”

“It didn’t come with the horse,” she says. “I added it. Mom says it’s ‘personalized’.”

“I see that.”

“Do you like horses?”

Luke eases the lollipop into his mouth. The fabricated grape flavor bursts on his tongue, chasing the bitterness away. 

“Yes.”

She frowns. “I don’t believe you. Boys don’t like horses.”

“Says who?”

“James Thomas. He said so last week.”

“He’s a liar.” 

The girl smiles. “That’s what I told the teacher. But she didn’t get mad at him for it.”

“There’s a lot of statues of boys on horses. So, they must like them alright.”

The girl nods thoughtfully. “And you do?”

“I said I did,” Luke looks at her and then turns. He eases leather of his knife case forward enough so she can see without seeing the knife inside. “See.”

She peers at the worn leather. There’s a few stickers there. Small, and worn.

“They don’t look much like horses,” she critiques, “you can’t even see the colors anymore, just the shapes.”

“I know,” Luke says. “They’re old.”

The girl takes a step back again. “You should go inside.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. Get a jacket. You look cold.”

“Maybe I will.”

The girl nods. “Good.” And simple as that she turns around and continues her walk along the cement that borders the parking lot.

Luke watches her for a moment. She walks on the very edge, both hands out to balance herself. Every now and again she lifts a hand up to spin the lollipop between her lips.

He focuses on the taste of his own. Sour and sweet. False, manufactured, but nice all the same.

He turns back to the room.

“Listen up,” he says as he opens the door. The three faces turn to him with shocked expressions. “Enough of this half-assed bullshit. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

Castiel stares back at him. “What do you mean?”

“They have an army. It’s time we got one of our own.” Luke’s expression hardens. “We’re stopping this. Once and for all. Now.”

Castiel stares back at him, surprise apparent in his wide blue eyes. Sam looks as if he’s almost smiling. Dean squints back at him. 

“… Is that a lollipop?”


	13. Chapter 13

Castiel focuses on the road, broken yellow lines chasing after each other. One by one. The sunlight is almost gone, and he’s sorry for it. They’re on route 196, along the lake. The view had been nice while the daylight lasted.

The radio switches on.

Castiel glances down at it suspiciously. It’s a very clear station. Metallica. He thinks.

He switches the radio off. It’s quiet for a moment.

The radio snaps back on. Led Zeppelin. A little louder this time.

Castiel grumbles, switching it off more firmly this time.

“Hey, come on,” Dean’s voice comes from the passenger side, “that’s a great one.”

“I don’t want to listen to music.”

“We’ve been driving in a dead, honestly creepy, silence, for three hours. You’ve got to give me something here, man.”

“I guess I should let you listen,” Castiel says. “If I don’t maybe you’ll forget why you wanted to save us all from fiery death and join the armies of heaven after all.”

“Hey—” Dean starts.

“That might not be enough though. Maybe we should keep some pie in the car. That should do it, right? Pie and classic rock will appease the greater power to offer aid?”

“Doesn’t sound half bad,” Dean grins.

Castiel glares at the road.

“Alright man, seriously, what’s crawled up your ass?”

He turns to looks at him. “You’re not serious.”

“God, I hope not. Is there actually something up there?”

Castiel glare increases to deathly levels.

“Fine,” Dean looks away, leaning back in the passenger seat with a petulant sigh. “Be pissed. Don’t tell me. Whatever.”

It’s quiet. For about forty-five seconds.

“I just think,” Dean starts again, “now that we’re limiting our air time, the ride would be a lot more chipper if you stopped acting like such a tight wad.”

Castiel’s tempted to pull the car over and kick him into the nearest lake. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel again to resist the impulse.

“You never listened to me.”

Dean glances over at him. “What’s that now?”

“You were hearing my… you were listening to prayers, ever since I was three years old. You never helped me. You never even listened long enough to know my name.”

“Yeah, well, that’s kinda comforting isn’t it?”

Castiel stares at him. “Excuse me?”

“I think it is,” Dean shrugs. “It’s not like I was listening to all these sob stories and still not helping. I wasn’t listening at all. So, for all I knew you were having the perfect little suburban human life. Golden retriever. Starting short-stop. Peanut butter and Oreos. The works.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Look,” Dean turns to him, “humans have never really been… my thing, okay? Truth is they aren’t really anyone’s thing upstairs. Some of the real old angels get you mixed up with horseshoe crabs, and I’m not even making that up.”

“Sam listened,” Castiel says.

“Sam is an idiot,” Dean returns gloomily. “Yes. He listened. He’s curious, and too smart to be as naive as he is, and he paid for that ten times fucking over.”

“What do you mean he paid for it?”

“Nothing,” Dean turns back to the windscreen, “I just mean… It wasn’t you. Alright? It’s just the way things are. The way things were.”

Castiel tightens his jaw. “That doesn’t make it better.”

Dean laughs. “What the hell else do you want me to say?”

“Nothing,” Castiel snaps. “Nothing, I just… Nothing is what I thought it would be.”

Dean rolls his head to one side, voice suddenly quieter, curious. “What did you think it would be?”

Castiel sighs. “Which part? In the beginning I thought my father was a hero. Then I thought my brothers were. And when even that left me, I thought that someone was listening. I thought that angels were kind. I thought that someone loved us. Someone cared for us.”

Dean’s expression darkens. “Yeah well, I hate to tell you this but you can be a hard bunch to love.”

Castiel glances to him. “What do you mean?”

Dean’s quiet for a moment. “Have you ever seen cats? When they catch something?”

Castiel turns on the wipers. The snow is back. “I don’t think I’ve ever _watched_ , but I know what they do.”

“I don’t know if you do…” Dean’s voice is steady. Low. Stern. “It takes them hours. There’s a poison in their saliva— that’s what people end up being allergic to. That poison goes into effect as soon as they bite something. So, the prey’s dead as soon as it's caught. It’s over before it starts. But it takes time. They drag it out. They take things apart. Piece by piece. Because they can. Because it’s what they do. Maybe they’re curious. Or maybe they just enjoy it.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“People are worse than cats,” Dean says quietly. “You take things apart. Piece by piece. Because you can.”

Castiel frowns. “There will always be people with dark sides—“

“Yesterday, twelve million, six hundred eighteen thousand, seven hundred and three twelve year old girls were raped. One thousand and thirteen people were killed for absolutely no other reason than someone wanted to see what it felt like. A bag of puppies was thrown down a well. Sixty different wells. And one very special man, who has spent the past two months finding frogs in the creek behind his house, and nailing them, limbs spread, to the walls of his basement finished his collection. He sprays them down with nutrient water a few times a day to make sure they stay alive. I think the final count was eight-hundred and six.” Dean turns his head to look at him. His eyes are dark and more tired than Castiel has noticed before. “But that’s yesterday. I haven’t tuned in today. There’s been a bit too much going on. Maybe things have turned around.”

Castiel’s stomach feels heavy and twisted-up behind his ribs. He tries to ignore it. He tries to center on the road. Everything on either side is pale, pine trees heavy with snow.

“You said you were sent to earth. In groups, squads… What did you do?”

Dean stares out at the swirling snow. “We made things better. Some things.”

Castiel swallows. “You killed people.”

“Yes.”

“Sinners?”

“Yes.”

Castiel lets out a bitter laugh. “You’ll do that. But you won’t listen to prayers?”

“We were answering prayers. I didn’t have to hear them to know that.” Dean’s body is quite still. “You think you kill monsters. But you haven’t seen monsters. Trust me. The worst horrors lie just under human skin.”

“Jo believes that.”

“She has good reason to. We both do.”

“But you’re here,” Castiel says. “You came with Sam when he asked.”

“He’s my brother,” Dean says. “I couldn’t let him come alone.”

“You could have stopped him. If you had to. If that was all it was. But you didn’t. You came.”

Dean shifts against the seat. “Crawlers… there’s something about you. You’re all mess, and slop, and evolutionary train wrecks. But then, sometimes, something will just… shine. You do these things, these amazing things. I don’t know how it’s fucking possible, with those chemical disasters in your brains and mad scrambles of life spans, but you manage to manifest your own messy little miracles. Bach and Black Sabbath. Hamlet and Rocky. Turner and apple pie. These things slip through all that wretchedness.”

He’s looking out the window. A road sign flashes past.

“Sometimes, I think it’s just the dumb luck of the damn cosmos. Somehow channeling this shit through you just as an excuse to give it existence. But the cosmos has never been that imaginative. And it certainly didn’t think of deep fried Pepsi.”

The minivan feels a little smaller suddenly. Not uncomfortable of claustrophobic. Close. And warm. Especially with the snow wiping past them on the frozen, hollow road just past a quarter inch of glass.

Castiel reaches out. He switches on the radio. It’s Jimmy Hendrix this time.

He doesn’t look at Dean, but he thinks he might be smiling.

“Kris thinks Luke is lying to me,” Castiel says quietly. “She said he stopped her from killing Michael.”

“What do you think?” Dean asks after a moment.

“I know he’s a liar. But I don’t think he wants to be. I don’t think he wants to kill Michael, but that’s why you found us isn’t it?”

Dean flexes his fingers against the armrest. “There’s the theory. Then there’s the reality. I know Sam was hoping we could do this without killing him. He was hoping you both could bring in back. But I don’t know now... we lost another seal last night. And from here on out things get a lot stickier in more ways than one.”

“I want to trust him,” Castiel continues, “but I know there’s things he simply isn’t telling me.”

Dean makes a rough sound of agreement.

Castiel looks at him. He’s not sure whether he’s going to ask. But what does he have to lose?

“Did Sam save him from hell?”

Dean’s expression tightens. “No.”

Castiel presses. “You’re sure? Because—”

“I’m sure,” Dean says, voice cold. It’s a voice that doesn’t want to be asked again.

“Right,” Castiel turns back to the road, trying to focus. “Then… how did he get out?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says. “All I know is that any human who crawls out of hell on their steam is not someone to be fucked with.”

“You really don’t know anything?”

Dean sighs, flexing his shoulders against the sameness of the seat. “I know there’s something wrong with that thing around his neck.”

Castiel frowns. “What do you mean ‘wrong’?”

“It’s a hole.”

Castiel stares. “I don’t understand.”

“A hole in the hidden side of himself where something should be.”

Right. Because that makes things much clearer.

A road sign slips past the car. 250 Miles to Joilet.

It’s full, settled darkness now. Only the luminance from flashing headlight slipping down the highway. Hundreds of lives, sealed away in their little metal cases. Each with histories. Each with concerns and cares and loves of their own. Each one the center of its own universe.

“So…” Castiel’s voice sounds distant, even to his own ears, “you really don’t listen to prayers?”

Dean turns back to him. “Hm?”

“The prayers. You don’t listen to them?”

Dean shrugs. “There’s a lot of them, man. It’s just a buzz. And even if I did listen, ten percent of them would be the type of zealot shit that keeps world leaders clutching the blankets at night, twenty percent would be wasteful trash, and likely all told ninety-nine out of a hundred would be better off left alone.”

“And what about the one left over?”

“What’s that?”

“What about that one. The one out of a hundred that might be worth listening to?”

Dean frowns. “But you don’t just get that one. You get the lot. Seriously man, what if it was you? Would you want to open up that crate of rotten apples and sift through with bare hands just to find the one good one?”

Castiel’s quiet for a moment.

“Yes,” he says finally, voice strong in the stillness of the car. “I think I would.”

Dean looks back at him. A small smile edges across his face. “You know something, I think you actually might.”

The seventies rock presses gently out of the speakers, protected and clear, sealed away from the rage and ice of winter.

A billboard flashes past. Hamburger pizza. Five miles.

“Hey, could we—“

“No.”

 

The truck trundles over the highway, pale pools of headlights creating that strange effect they always have driving at night on snow. The light parts of the road paradoxically become the ones you want, and the dark spots are the ones to avoid. White means salt stains. Dark means snow melt. Or worse, the thick, secret danger of ice.

Luke’s glad he put the snow tires on this year. With a hunter’s erratic schedule you never knew just where you’d end up when the winter started. He could have just as easily spent the season chasing chupacabras around southern Texas. But no. Instead he’s on the snowy roads, heading south with an angel in the passenger seat. You really never could know.

“So,” Sam starts again, “where are we going?”

“Missouri,” Luke answers shortly.

“Why?”

“We need help.” He’s trying to avoid syllables, but Sam seems to win more off of him with each question.

Sam eases back into the passenger seat. He still looks pale, but it’s hard to tell if he’s looking better or worse in the dim light.

“Are you going to tell us _who_ we’re going to ask for help from?”

Luke flexes his hands on the steering wheel. “No. I don’t think so.”

Sam sighs. “Look, just because we weren’t totally forthright doesn’t mean—“

“It won’t make a difference if you know where we’re going. Trust me,” Luke says. “And honestly I doubt you want to. It’s not exactly consecrated sources.”

Sam smiles. “We’re not exactly consecrated sources any more.”

“Well, maybe it’s perfect then.” Luke glances in the rear-view to make sure that Castiel is still close behind.

There aren’t exactly directions to get where they’re going. The place always changes. And still, he always knows how to get there. He wonders, if he took off the charm would he’d still know? But then again, if he took off the charm that would be the least of his problems.

Silence settles into the space around them. He can hear Sam breathing. He’s never noticed that before.

“You know,” Luke says quietly, “you really shouldn’t have lied.”

“I know, I know.“

“No, I mean,” Luke tries again, “if you had just told me. From the beginning why you were here, I would have said yes a lot faster.”

Sam glances at him. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Luke answers. “I’m surprised actually. You’ve known me all this time and you never realized I’d choose rebels over the empire?”

“It’s not…” Sam tries, “I do know you. But I don’t as well, I guess. Why would you have been that much more likely to help?”

Luke focuses on the road. He thinks for a moment.

“I don’t like bullies,” he says finally. “I don’t like strength that forces itself upon weakness. People deserve to make their own futures. They deserve to fuck up their lives, ruin their dreams, and lose their hope on their own terms.”

“Or find it?” Sam tries.

Luke rolls his eyes. “Let’s just say I’m not a fan of some high powered tea-party with wings strapped on deciding that the world’s ready to take its last bow.”

Sam makes a soft sound of agreement. He’s leaned against the door, gazing out the passenger side window into the darkness.

“What made you think I’d feel any different?” Luke asks.

“I don’t know,” Sam says softly, “it’s stupid I guess.”

“No, what was it?”

“It’s just…” His hair’s fallen against his eyes, making his expression hard to read at a glance. “I thought for once you might want to think that something was on your side. Something strong enough to declare right from wrong.”

Luke’s quiet for a moment. “I never put much store in right and wrong.”

“I do,” Sam says. His breathe is fogging against the cold glass of the window. “Saying it’s _right_ to cut a terrified girl’s throat, that’s wrong. They are wrong.”

Luke says nothing. The road continues to ease past them. Castiel’s headlights remain constant, always following, small bright shapes against the rear-view mirror.

“How far is it to wherever _this_ is?” Sam asks, eyeing the highway skeptically.

Luke snorts. “Are you going to turn into a seven year old now that you’re not magically zipping around all over the place?”

“Just curious,” Sam returns, sinking deeper into Luke’s coat. The same one he’s been wearing since North Dakota.

“Six hours, maybe more,” Luke answers. “But we’ll have to wait till nightfall. Our place opens at midnight.”

“That might be right around then when we get there.”

“No…” Luke says. He feels the weight of the charm against his chest. “It won’t be ready yet.”

Sam makes a small rumbly noise and sinks deeper into the seat. It actually looks as if his eyes are getting heavy.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Sam glances over. “What?”

“You’re sick. Hurt. Something’s wrong, and don’t pretend there isn’t. You’ve been off since the night on the peak.”

Sam crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I spent too much energy. I’m… I shouldn’t have been so reckless. But I didn’t expect Ava, and things all went so fast.”

“Why now?” Luke asks. “You used to do that,” he twists his hand around, vaguely miming the blasting action, “that thing, with the light and the nasty burning smell. You did that at least three times in a row back in that vamp’s nest.”

“Angelic fights are a little intense than killing vampires. I’d think that was noticeable.”

Luke can’t help himself. “I have to admit those wings were pretty cool.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “ _Pretty_ cool?”

“Yeah,” Luke smiles. “Not bad.”

Sam huffs out a small laugh before snuggling back down into his seat.

“But,” Luke begins again, “Your brother seems to be doing okay, and he was doing just as much… fluttering.”

“He’s… it’s different with him,” Sam says. “He has… stronger ties.”

Luke frowns. “What do you mean?”

“We’re all tethered to heaven, like I told you. The power in heaven comes from billions of souls. Trillions. It’s able to channel the directly energy of the universe, the energy that splits from form when someone passes. That’s where Dean and my power comes from, the line back to heaven. And mine’s… well it hasn’t been the most secure connection for a little while now.”

Luke swallows. “Is this because of what Jo was saying? About your Dad? Something about knowing you’re ‘gone’?”

Sam’s voice grows distant, colder. “We’ve never gotten along. He’s never liked… I’ve done things that have pushed us apart. My line to heaven’s weaker than it ever has been. I have to take things slower or I might lose it altogether. We can’t risk that. Not with stakes like this.”

“But Dean still seems the same.”

“Even so, we shouldn’t risk too much. He should be careful as well, save his energy for when we really need it. Honestly, I don’t know why the connection is still so strong with him. It’s like Dad still thinks Dean’s going to come back…”

Luke shifts his grip on the steering wheel. “I’m starting to think it wasn’t just a coincidence that you were the ones who ended up all knitted up with us.”

“Yeah,” Sam says quietly. “I know.”

“You said…” Luke starts again. The words seems to not fit right in his mouth so he takes a moment. “Weeks ago, you said that you came the first time I prayed. But it wasn’t my prayer. It was our mother?”

“It was her prayer that let me hear yours,” Sam says. “When I heard yours… it was hard not to listen.”

“But that means,” Luke focuses firmly on the road. “She was dead? Already? When I…?”

Sam’s face is still turned towards the window. “Yes.”

The next question would be easy enough. But it doesn’t come.

The truth is he knows the answer. He’s known for a long time now. But despite how much you acknowledge some things must be true, actually hearing them, actually _knowing_ them… well, somethings are better left smothered in the darkness.

Luke drives on through the night. The highway’s lanes thin and thicken. The falling snow eases then returns.

“Sam?” Luke says into the quiet. His throat’s dry.

There’s no answer. He glances over. Sam’s eyes are shut, mouth hanging just a touch open. His chest is moving steadily. Up and down. A strand of his hair bounces back and force as the air from his nose pushes against it.

Luke swallows his question and turns back to the road.

 

When Castiel wakes, sun is pushing through the windscreen. He shifts, blinking at the brightness and slowly sitting upright with a groan. His body protests with all the usual soreness of a night spent sleeping in the car but obeys eventually.

He glances over at the passenger seat. There’s no one there.

Slowly, he reaches for the door, pushing it open and stumbling out into the day.

It’s bright, the sky a seamless flat blue. His feet don’t crunch when they hit the ground. It isn’t cold enough for that this far south. There’s still snow underfoot, but not much, maybe three, soft, slushy inches.

He takes a deep breath and looks around as he exhales. They’re on the edge of a field. The stumps of harvested corn stalks jut messily through the shallow snow cover. The air is warm against his face and he can actually feel the sunlight on his shoulders. It must be close to thirty degrees.

The field rises and falls, ground pushing into few small hills, all covered in corn with a few trees in between. There’s only one building he can see, and it’s not much of one.

At the crest of a small rise in the earth there’s a small patch of ancient looking trees, trunks craggily and worn. Pushed just inside of them is a church. It’s small, worn. It looks as if it hasn’t seen a congregation for a century or more. If the walls were white once, they haven’t been for decades, stripped by weather and age down to bare boards of well tried wood. Shingles have slipped off of the steeple, leaving half of it bare and skeletal.

He should be able to glance away, to just take it in, like any other part of the scenery. It isn’t that unusual after all. But the more he looks at it, the more an unsettled feeling slinks around him.

It looks somehow strange in this field. As if it wasn’t supposed to be there. As if it was never supposed to be there. There’s no road leading to it. No path. Not even a break in the corn. There’s no town close enough to walk to it. It doesn’t look as if there ever was.

It feels like he’s looking at a puzzle with the last piece jammed strangely into place. The picture is clear, and the last piece should fit, because all the others do, don’t they? But it just… doesn’t. It seems as though he might blink, and the church would be gone, the field reset, back to what it should be.

Luke is leaning against the front of the truck. One hand in the pocket of his jeans, the other fiddling with the charm around his neck.

Castiel steps closer, stopping a few feet away.

“What is that place?” he asks.

Luke glances at him, then back to the church. “Does your little wiki ever talk about someone called The Buyer?”

Castiel feels suddenly cold, despite the clear sky, despite the heat of the sun.

“What do we do?” he asks.

Luke lets the charm fall back to his chest. “We wait. And we see just how lucky we are.”


	14. Sunday School

It happens so slowly Castiel can’t be sure when it started .

The sun sets early, leaving everything smothered in darkness by five. The night seems inclined to follow the day. Cloudless. Windless. A heavy moon begins urging herself up over the Eastern horizon by six, looming languorous and brilliant on the dark curve of the low hills in the distance.

The moonlight drips and drools silver into the landscape, oozing into all corners and expanses. With each hour the stars grow brighter, splattered across the sky, erratic and wild, but always still. Like all the rest of it, perfectly, icily, still.

The fields become stark white against the press of cold light, and as the day becomes a memory the cold creeps back in again.

By seven Castiel’s breath fogs in front of him, the chill of the air catching it, teasing it into new shapes and forms before running off with it for good. 

When Dean reappears with crinkly paper bags filled with warm foil wrapped burgers and fries it’s almost eight, and the steam smelling of fast food and cheap meat pulls out into the cold of the night as well.

The church sits on the edge of the field. Dark, silent, and still. Until it isn’t.

Castiel isn’t sure when it started. He remembers checking his phone at nine, looking up, and noticing that the windows seemed a little brighter than before. A trick of the light he’d thought, the reflections changing as the moon urged herself up higher and higher.

It wasn’t until eleven that he realized the music wasn’t just some song stuck in his mind. It wasn’t the kind of music that was exactly noticeable. There’s no melody, or at least not one he could hear. There’s a rhythm. There’s a beat. There’s heat and weight to it that at first he’d thought might just be his own pulse. But it grows, and expands, and when he looks up again the church is brighter, and the windows altogether the wrong color to blame on the moon.

The windows turn red. Deep and lush, a red that seems to breath, to swell and pull back again with the driving beat of music that he felt more than heard. Bass under his feet, a pound easing up around his bones.

That’s about when the angels start getting uneasy. They don’t seem to like looking at the church, but they can’t seem to help it all the same. Even as Dean paces wet trails in the thin snow around the minivan he keeps glancing at it, as if the red glow of the building snatches at his eyes and drags them back to it despite himself.

It’s midnight when Castiel notices the shadows.

They’re dull and first. Then clearer. The red light has intensified, spilling out sharp squares onto the snow surrounding the church,. But those aren’t the shadows that suddenly make his skin prickle.

There’s people inside the church. He can see the shapes of them, black against the light from the windows. They’re moving. Dancing. And there’s lots of them. 

Castiel can’t help staring. “How’s that possible?”

“What?” Dean says sharply, looking up. He sees the church and makes a grumble in the back of his throat. “Fucking hell”

Luke checks his watch. One hand fiddles with the charm on his neck. He’s been doing that for most of the day. “Right on time.” He lets his wrist fall back to his side. “Alright boys, don’t want to be late.”

The angels don’t seem inclined to move. They’re staring at the church across the field. Sam leans against the truck, his arms crossed tightly in front of his chest. Dean’s hands don’t seem to know what to do with themselves, and Castiel thinks that every now and again he sees the edge of a wings nervously slipping in and out from the corner of his eye. 

“It’s not right,” Sam says, staring at the red windows, the angles of his face softly mirroring the color. “It’s not supposed to be there.”

“It’s just magic,” Luke sighs, taking a few steps forward.

“It’s the wrong kind of magic,” Dean returns sharply.

“Look,” Luke turns back to them with a stern expression. “We need help. If we want to do this right, if we want to really have a chance at stopping all of this. We need muscle. And this is the way to get it.”

Dean shakes his head. “You know I’ve spent a good handful of millennia wrangling with some seriously high level evil. There’s certain instincts that manage to stick with a line of work like that, and every single fucking one of them is telling me to back the hell away from that church.”

Luke smiles. “Scared?”

Dean looks like he might punch him.

Sam’s mouth twists uncomfortably. “You really think this is the best chance we have?”

Luke looks back at him. “We wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Sam swallows. “Alright.”

“You can wait in the car if you really want,” Luke teases in Dean’s direction.

“Fuck you,” Dean snaps, and with tight fists he starts off in the direction of the church. Luke winks at Castiel and turns to follow.

The field is perfectly still. There isn’t one ounce of breeze to wriggle the tips of the thinnest branches or press against the exposed tips of corn stalks that crunch noisily under their feet. Castiel breathes in the chill of the air, watching as the shape of the church steadily grows, the details of the moving shapes within getting clearer with each step.

“No one went in,” he says. “There’s no cars. Not even any footprints.”

“The front door isn’t the only one that works,” Luke says over his shoulder. “They’re doors all over the world that you can find. If you’re willing to pay for a ticket. And clever enough to find one.”

The music is growing around them though not in volume. Castiel can feel the rhythm against the back of his neck, on the tips of his fingers, under the balls of his feet. He wonders if he’s the only one, or if the music everyone else hears is the same as what’s urging itself against him. 

Sam suddenly comes to a stop. “Dean.” 

His voice is stern, wary. He’s staring at the trees. 

Dean halts, looking at the exact same spot. Castiel follows his glance. He doesn’t see anything. “What? What is it?”

Dean grabs Luke’s jacket arm, stopping him dead as well. 

Luke follows their look. He focuses on the same spot, the spot that to Castiel’s eyes is nothing but chilled, still air.

Luke frowns. “Don’t worry.”

“What the fuck do you mean ’don’t worry’?” Dean hisses through his teeth.

“There’s another one,” Sam says quietly. His eyes scan the area around the church with quick nervous glances. “And another. And another… christ.”

“I said don’t worry,” Luke repeats.

Sam swallows. “They’re looking at you.”

Luke pulls his arm free and keeps walking. “I know. But they’re not here for me. Not today.”

He doesn’t seem to be stopping so Sam follows him closely, but his steps are more careful now and they both keep glancing at whatever invisible danger they see circling the church.

“I don’t see anything,” Castiel whispers.

Dean doesn’t look at him. His eyes haven’t shifted from the same spots. “Hell hounds.”

Castiel slows. “What? Here?”

“There’s five. They’re circling.”

“But they’re not… Why would they be anywhere if they aren’t after a soul?”

“I’m as lost as you are Alice,” Dean grumbles back.

They’re close to the church now. Close enough that the branches of the tall oaks that circle the back of the of the building cast long skeletal shadows down around them. Close enough that their faces are all aglow with the ruby light spilling out of the windows. 

Luke keeps moving, keeps approaching, and then, slows. It’s almost as if he’s remembered something, or saw some tripwire slung across the two broken stairs that lead up to the hanging ancient door. 

“What?” Dean asks, still glancing at invisible dangers. 

“Castiel,” Luke says, turning quickly. “Could I speak to you for a moment?” His eyes look strange suddenly. Uncomfortable. Pupils more dilated than they should be, even in this dark.

“What is it?” Castiel asks.

“Can I speak to you privately?” Luke pushes.

Castiel narrows his eyes and takes a single step to one side. 

“Don’t go too far,” Dean shoots over his shoulder.

Luke puts a hand on Castiel’s arm and almost shoves him a few more meters back.

“Hey! What?” Castiel snaps, pulling his arm back to himself.

Luke looks him dead in the eyes. “When was the last time you got any?”

Castiel’s cheeks heat up instantly. He hears Dean barely smother a laugh a meter or so back. Luke glares over his shoulder in his direction.

Castiel babbles. “I don’t— I don’t know what you mean, I—“

“Laid.” Luke says firmly. “When was the last time you got laid?”

Castiel’s really trying his best not to yell at him to back off and throw something at Dean’s snickering shoulders in the meantime. He tries to convince his face to be any color other than bright red. Maybe in the light they can’t tell. 

Castiel crosses his arms tightly in front of his chest. “That’s personal. I’m not telling you.”

“I’m really not asking so I can tell all the girls in first period you’re the chess club slut,” Luke says.

“I don’t care,” Castiel hisses back.

“I do,” Luke insists. “It’s important.”

“Why?!”

“Because,” he steps closer, “things are going to get very very interesting as soon as we open that door, and I need to know just how much interesting I should be prepared for.”

Castiel glares at the snow under his feet. If he doesn’t look at him maybe he’ll shut up.

“Oh come on,” Luke sighs, “it can’t have been long.”

“What makes you say that?” Castiel says, attention instantly shooting up.

Luke shrugs. “You’re, you know, not… terrible looking.”

Castiel’s cheeks gain at least ten degrees. Dean’s snickering again.

“And, well, that’s one of advantages of the job isn’t it?” Luke continues. 

“What is?” Castiel snaps.

Luke waves a hand vaguely in the air. “All that danger, all that risk. Gets your blood pounding. And other people’s too. Sometimes there’s a need to… burn off excess adrenaline.”

Castiel steps closer, eyes narrowed furiously. “I do not take advantage of people who have been seriously compromised by facing a horrific and unimaginable death!”

“Jesus, I didn’t mean civilians,” Luke says. “I meant other hunters—“

“I don’t work with other hunters, remember,” Castiel says firmly. “I don’t know other hunters.” 

Luke stares back at him. “What? Seriously?”

“Yes! Seriously!”

“You’re really not going to tell me? Would it make you feel better if I told you, because—“

“No!” Castiel says instantly.

Luke frowns. “Not even a hint?”

Castiel swallows firmly. “Not… recently. Alright?”

Luke’s eyes narrow. “So what? A few months?”

Castiel glares back, voice lowering to a furious grumble. “A few years. Alright?”

Dean whistles behind them.

“Shut up!” Castiel and Luke shout at once.

Luke turns back, running a hand through his hair. “Alright, well. This might be interesting.”

Castiel eyes the door. The music slips under his skin, pressing with firm pulses into his limbs. The red light pours through the cracks in the ancient wood. “Why? What’s going to happen?”

“It will be fine,” Luke says, almost to himself. “We just have to get to the back room.” He’s fiddling with his charm again. “We can do that.” 

Castiel swallows. “Let’s just get it over with.” 

He heads for the door with purpose. It only takes a few steps to reach it. He wraps his fingers around the rusted metal of the handle before he has time to regret it. He takes a breath as the footsteps hurry up behind him. He pulls. The door opens.

There’s no red light. There’s nothing. 

Just an empty church. Slanted moonlight slipping down onto the broken wooden interior. Up in one corner an owl blinks back at them.

“Sorry,” Luke says over Castiel’s shoulder. He pulls the door shut again. “You weren’t invited.”

He reaches up to his neck. Slowly, carefully, he eases the charm free. He moves carefully, as if he’s handling some glass encased pandora’s box, worried that if he drops it all unimaginable horror will unleash on the world.

“Luke,” Sam says warily, looking out into the darkness of the trees. “They’re getting closer.”

Luke swallows. “I know.”

Quickly, he wraps the string of the charm around his wrist, tying it firm. He holds the small leather bag firmly in his palm. With the same hand he reaches out for the door. 

Castiel watches, breath quick in his chest. The red light is still oozing out of the windows. The music is growing louder. Luke’s hands close around the handle.

He stops abruptly and turns back. Castiel barely manages not to jump.

Luke looks to Dean and Sam. “Are you… sure you don’t want to wait in the car?”

“Yeah, right. We’ll just let you go into the mysterious sin den that’s being circled by a pack of hell hounds all on your own,” Dean returns.

Sam swallows. “We’re coming.”

Luke sighs. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He looks to Castiel as his hand tightens around the handle. “Any of you.”

He pulls the door open.

The feeling hits Castiel so suddenly there’s no way he could have been ready. And he knows, instantly, why he had to ask.

Sex floods out of that door. 

Castiel doesn’t know a lot about sex. He’s never claimed to. He’s never exactly wanted to. The times in his life where sex has happened to happen have felt more like tripping and ending up in an unexpected position than anything. There haven’t been many of them.

It’s not that he doesn’t like it. It’s just getting to the place, the moment, the comfort where he can let that feeling in, well, it’s is more of a challenge than it seems to be for others. He’s never understood how so many people seem to be able to get there so easily. Because there’s something terrifying about it isn’t there? He understand why it was so easy to see it as something religious, in the beginning something holy, and later just to opposite. Always so strong and so dangerous. Those moments, when suddenly it grabs you, and it just won’t let go. When your stomach goes tight and light all at once, when your whole body hums and your throat goes dry and your tongue heavy, when your limbs fall loose and tense firm and everything is silenced, everything is smothered, all thoughts gone messy and jumbled, when things just start to happen because the only thing that’s left is the need… It’s always taken a lot to accept that. It’s always taken a lot to risk that. At least it always has for him.

So, to open a door, and suddenly have that feeling, everything it’s ever been and so much more than he’s ever thought it could be, thrown in his face like one heavy bucket of brimful of oozing, warm, lust… Well. The surprise it knocks into his chest doesn’t exactly help.

The feeling rushes over him, like a wave of perfectly warm water that’s both knocking him back and pulling him in all at once.

He blinks against it. Lids heavy. Breath ragged. He tries to rise his head above it. To think. To see. He urges his eyes and they focus, just, as the door closes out the cold, quiet, nothing behind them, replacing it with just the opposite.

The church is filled. With people. Music. And heat.

The warmth is shocking, sudden after the cold. He can already feel sweat pricking at his forehead and against the back of his neck. It’s not the type of heat you feel from sunshine, or even firelight. It’s the hype of heat that comes from humans and nothing else, from bodies pressed tight and close and firm.

There’s so many people. So many kinds of people. And they are all very apparently suffering from the same surge of heat that’s gripped him hard and twisting in a way that’s almost painful.

The music pounds. It’s more than just a feeling now. It’s so loud he can’t hear anything beside it and his own pulse. It silences everything, all possible voices. You’d have to scream to overwhelm it and even then he’s not sure anyone would hear you. But it doesn’t hurt against his ears as it should, it’s almost as if it’s coming from inside his head rather than outside. There’s no DJ. He doesn’t even see any speakers. Just the bodies, packed in as tight as possible, brimming against the walls.

He’s never seen so many different kinds of people in one place before, red light pouring down over them all. An older Chinese business man with his hands on the waist of a slithering women with large blue eyes, her pale hair pulled into dreadlocks, eyebrows weighed down with half a dozen piercings. A tall stony man, dressed in what some distant hazy part of his brain tells him is a maasai hunter’s garb, hands wrapped around the swaying hips of two women whose mouths have found each other’s. A curved girl with red hair twice the size of her head, covered in gold chains and diamond jewels, slides against a short man in a blazer with an opened white shirt, one of his hands pressing firm under a black-lace clad breast. A weathered-faced man in who looks to be in his early fifties, wearing a dirty flannel and pale jeans, his mouth open against the bared neck of a sweater-vested thirty-something whose glasses have slipped down his nose so far they’re threatening to fall off altogether and Castiel’s sure he won’t even notice. 

None of it makes the feeling any easier to bear.

Castiel tries to focus. He tries to remember why they even opened the door. He blinks. He swallows. He tries to looks away. But there’s no looking away. Everything is so tight and hot and slick. They’re in it now, in with all of them pushing, swaying, throbbing against the impossible loudness of that beat. 

He tries to see the others amidst it all. They’re still close together. At least there’s that. Although, they don’t look to be doing much better than himself.

Luke’s expression is hard set, jaw tense and tight. He’s looking straight ahead, through the crowd, towards the back of the room. His hands are balled at his sides, pupils blown out and brow strained.

Castiel’s not sure if the angels seem more shocked or terrified. Sam has a sag to his shoulders. His lips have slipped open half an inch. And Dean, well, Castiel isn’t exactly sure. He sees him, standing just to his left, expression heated, looking sluggish and alert all at once. He meet Castiel’s stare and glances away with a surge of panic flashing across his face. 

Castiel looks away. Why does his tongue feel so heavy? His hands so empty?

Luke’s the first to move. He pushes into the crowd and the mass of sweltering writhing bodies flows in around them like water. 

Hands slip, breath catches, and the music pounds. Castiel tries to focus. He tries to move forward, one step at a time. It’s not easy. There’s hands of all shapes and sizes on his arms, against his neck, slipping under his jacket. His head rolls back and he tries to breathe steadily, tries to ignore the heat, the touch, the low, tight, need that pulses stronger with each beat.

A woman slips a hand around Luke’s neck, one long black fingernail tracing his ear. He pushes past her. Hands continue to graze, some even grip. There’s a smell that’s overwhelming him: it’s heat and human and something familiar as well, something he thinks he remembers from being thirteen and hiding between the back pews of Minister Grey’s church when he wanted to be alone.

Magic.

He tries to tell himself. It’s a distant voice, lost behind the thud of the music and the wretched, wonderful drags of hands across his chest, along his hair, against his thighs. 

It’s just magic. It’s not real.

Everything seems to be moving slower than it should be. The bodies leap and thrum, but it feels as if the world is all slowed down, a deep, steady, slide.

A hand wraps around his neck, sliding along his jaw, turning his face. He obeys. It’s so easy. He looks down.

There’s a girl staring back at him. Short dark hair. Wide dark eyes. Pale skin.

And then, suddenly, she’s different. 

Things slip and pull. All at once there’s a green glint to corners of her eyes. Her hair’s gone golden on the edges. And for a moment, it almost looks as though she has freckles along her nose. Her hand tightens in the thickness of his hair. Her lips part. 

She kisses him, and he lets her. 

The pulsating ember that had been humming behind his ribs ignites into a tight hot flame. His hands grip, hungry and thoughtless, snatching at her hips as a warm tongue presses against his. His eyes lazily peer, barely open. Freckles. Winking back at him.

A strong hand closes on his arm and pulls him back. Hard. The girl falls away in surprise, but the crowd catches her easily. Warm hands, tight bodies.

Castiel gasps. The world slices back into him and he tries to breathe the fire off of his lips. It’s not easy. There’s firm hands on his arms. He thinks someone might be yelling at him. It’s not Luke. He can see his back. Still moving. Still heading forward.

The hands are so strong. So, so, warm. He feels his body loosening, slipping back without permission. He leans and there’s the chest there he knew he’d find. His own hand slips backwards, curious. Hungry. He feels a belt under his fingers.

The hands on his arms shove him firmly forward and out of their grip. Castiel stumbles, back on his own feet again. The sudden motion helps, a light breeze against the haze of heat. Castiel tries to stand straight, tries to get his bearings and resist letting all those hands simply claim him, pulling him into their welcoming, comforting, electric bodies.

He steps forward again. Luke’s there. He can see his short blond hair ahead, hands sliding against it, pulling just a little. Castiel looks for the others. Sam’s off to the left. He’s tall enough to see over most of it, but the bodies still press, still stretch, eager to taste and take.

Dean must be behind him. 

Something catches his eye. Something different.

There’s a woman in the crowd. 

He blinks. It shouldn’t be surprising. There’s lots of women in the crowd. But this one’s different.

She’s not moving. She’s standing perfectly still. And she’s looking right at him.

The bodies grind against the music, pulling back and forth, urging up and down, thoughtless, lost, gone. But not around her. There’s a small space around her that everyone seems to slip around, like some wall that no one sees. 

She looks right back at Castiel. Clever eyes. Sharp. So very sharp. 

She’s beautiful. Impossibly beautiful.

Slowly, she smiles. Her teeth are a perfect straight line of icy white.

A body knocks against his. He stumbles, and when he looks up again she’s gone.

Castiel blinks.

The strong arm hits his shoulder again, harder this time. It’s it’s not asking. It’s telling. Telling him to move. It pushes, hard, and he keeps dragging his steps forward, through the hands, the heat, the sound until finally he sees it. A door.

Luke’s standing in front of it. He’s breathing hard, putting more of his weight against the handle than he really needs to. Sam’s leaned against the wall beside him. His eyes are closed. tightly.

Luke focuses, takes one last deep breath and knocks exactly three times.

The door opens. The hands behind Castiel’s shoulders shove him inside. He stumbles and the door shuts behind them with a smooth click.

The world snaps into focus with all the abruptness of waking to a gunshot.

Hazy lust sucks out of his skull with a sharp twang as reality smacks back in. Everything is clear again. Edges are solid. The music is gone. Time passes just right. His body’s back under his control, not grabbing the steering wheel and spinning his brain hard in exactly the wrong direction. 

His breath still feels shallow, but he thinks that’s more shock now than anything else. He takes a step back. There’s a funny taste on his tongue and he realizes with horrified disgust it could be just about anything.

“Lovely,” a sarcastic voice sounds. “Angels and hunters. And it’s not even my birthday.”

Castiel focuses and looks around for the first time. They’re in a small room that’s absolutely covered with books. He can’t see the walls behind the volumes. He can only see a small circle of the floor that their standing on that is free of them. Any furniture is utterly strewn with open pages and heavy leather volumes. It might feel like some ancient record keepers vault, if the books weren’t littered with neon sticky-notes peering out from between pages. Some of the covers are actually written on with what looks like Sharpie marker. The book on top of the pile at his feet has “utter shit except for sundays” written on it. Another simply declares “bollocks”. And another “that one with the nasty thing with about goats”.

There’s dusty bottles of seems to be immensely expensive whiskey jammed between stacks along with all kinds of strange odds and ends. There’s a stack of iPods two feet tall in one corner. A cooler with “toddler blood” spray painted on the top against the fall wall. A George Foreman grill. A jar of eyes. He really doesn’t want to try and guess which kind of eyes. And shoved in one corner a… sarcophagus?

“Honestly, dear,” the same voice comes again. It’s accented. British. Grated and clever and almost musical. “You’ve made more interesting entrances.”

“I thought I’d try the front door for once,” Luke answers.

Castiel looks at the speaker for the first time properly. 

When he marked those postings about The Buyer in his wiki as “lacking evidence”, he’d wound up imagining someone… taller.

The man leaning two feet back in the leather seat behind the desk in the center of the room isn’t the picture of intimidation. 

He’s shorter than they are, it’s hard to tell with him sitting but Castiel knows for sure he doesn’t hit six foot. He’s scruffy. Half a beard. Round face. Large eyes. Dark hair that’s just starting to hint at grey. He doesn’t look particularly strong, or particularly terrifying. But there is something… something about the leather jacket slung over his shoulders. And the tattoos. 

The man is covered in tattoos. They weave around his arms, peering out of his sleeves to slink down hands and fingers. They circle his neck, and Castiel can see by the v-neck of the man’s black t-shirt that they even cover his chest and likely his back. All occult. All beyond Castiel’s level of understanding and experience. 

Castiel’s reminded of a rat. If there was a rat that managed to claw and bite and climb until it was well fed, comfortable, and quite happy in the end with being a rat. If someone turned a rat like that into a person, it might just look exactly like the man looking back at them.

The man smiles. One side of his lips pulling open to reveal straight brilliant teeth, and that just brings the entire picture together. There’s something unsettling about his smile and the way it pinches at his eyes just on the corners. Remorseless. Hard. Charming. And undeniably, viciously, intelligent.

“Let me guess?” the man raises a dark eyebrow. “Family feud?”

Luke ignores him with what seems to be a practiced ease. He runs a hand through his hair. 

“Castiel,” he says gesturing to the man behind the desk, “meet Crowley.”


	15. Whatever the hell they say about old friends...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s some listening this chapter! You’ll know when the songs come up.  
> Song #1 - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PhMIF0fi9pU  
> Song #2 - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BDTFxK-ssnk

“Pleasure,” Crowley smiles, giving Castiel a good once over.

“What the hell was that?” Dean snarls, jerking a hand back in the direction of the door they just closed behind them.

Luke glances over his shoulder. The angels don’t look well. Sam’s supporting himself on the nearest pile of books, eyes focused on the floor, seemingly trying to breath normally again. Dean looks as if he’s ready to start knocking bookcases over and is barely managing to contain himself.

Castiel seems pale and a little hollowed, but overall not bad. Better than he’d expected. He knows his own groin is trying to remember that no one actually pulled the fire alarm.

“Luke, darling,” Crowley rolls his neck to one side, twirling an unlit cigarette between the fingers of his left hand. He narrows his eyes. “Why are there are two angels getting their graces all over my enchantments?”

“I asked a question,” Dean pushes back.

“It’s just magic,” Luke says, hoping his own calm voice will do something to ease the tension.

“That,” Dean points sharply at the door, “was not just ‘magic’. I haven’t seen sex magic like that since fucking Babylon!”

“Really,” Crowley says flatly, “I’m blushing.”

“How did you do that?” Dean glares back at him.

“Don’t kiss and tell,” Crowley returns.

“That’s dark magic. Old magic,” Sam says weakly. “You can’t do that without gallons of freshly spilled virgin blood, an eclipse, phoenix beak—“

“It’s adorable you’re all so medieval, honestly,” Crowley drawls. “Have you still got your halos stuck in one of those ratty pockets?” 

“Hey,” Luke shoots, “that’s my coat.”

Crowley sniffs. “That explains it then.”

Castiel frowns in Luke’s direction. “Gallons of virgin blood?”

“Untwist your knickers, Eastwood,” Crowley says eying the trench-coat. “Patriarchal virginity hoarding is mostly hearsay and religious propaganda. It’s just the younger the blood the better it sticks so to speak.”

That doesn’t ease Castiel’s wary expression.

“What?” Crowley shrugs. “Coma victims don’t need blood. At least not all of it.”

Castiel looks back at Luke. “He’s a witch.”

Crowley rolls his eyes in Luke’s direction. “Damn. And here’s me clean out of gold stars.”

Dean’s expression is glowering. “Why are we here?”

“Good question,” Crowley returns. He eyes Luke sternly. “I really don’t deserve this level of heavenly attention. I really don’t need this level of heavenly attention.”

“Don’t worry,” Luke says, “they’re cut off.”

“No,” Crowley says sternly. “They’re not.”

“What?” Sam asks.

“The big one, with the face like a dog left behind in a car,” Crowley gestures to Sam, “seems to be held together with sticking plaster and shoelaces, but he’s still detectable. And this one, the attitude of the only jock left out of the elephant walk, might as well have covered his wings in bloody fairy lights. I’ve felt the inquiries flying. Hexes have been all off the past week. I knew someone was quite keen on finding something. It’s very thoughtful for you to have brought it right into my bloody parlor.”

Luke shakes his head. “No, they can’t detect us. They haven’t up until now.”

“You’re adorable when you pretend to know what the fuck you’re talking about, you know.”

“Honestly,—“ Luke starts again.

“Honestly, the only reason the light brigade hasn’t locked in on your radar is because you’ve been within the sphere of my generous influence for the past day. So: you’re welcome, now feel free to fuck off with your pigeons before anyone starts to look a little closer.”

“Hey!” Dean snaps. “We’re not fucking around here.”

“You never are,” Crowley says, looking him up and down. “You’d be much more fun if you were.”

“Crowley,” Luke starts again. “We need help.”

“Why?” Crowley’s eyes narrow. “It hasn’t run out. You wouldn’t have made it in if it had.” He gestures to the charm around Luke’s neck.

Luke quickly tucks it back into his shirt. “No. It’s fine.”

“Good.”

“What is it?” Castiel asks suddenly.

“It doesn’t matter,” Luke returns.

“No,” Castiel says suddenly. He looks from him to Crowley. “You trust him. We don’t. I want to know why.”

Luke tightens his jaw. “Trust is a strong word.”

“Darling,” Crowley grins, “cut me to the quick. After all our late night chats. Coffee dates. That time I leased your soul.”

Sam looks up instantly. “What?”

Perfect. Just perfect. 

Well, he really couldn’t have expected to avoid all of this, could he?

“Oh,” Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Haven’t told your new friends you’re walking around with an existential handicap?”

Sam’s staring up at him with that annoyingly open and innocent expression. All potent concern and full focus.

“What is it?” Castiel asks, with a caring expression that’s almost as irritating.

Luke glares at Crowley.

“Oh you tell it,” he says, “you tell it so well. And I don’t like to brag.”

Luke rolls his eyes. He takes a deep breath. “Crowley buys souls. Souls that have already been sold.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “You’re a deal-maker.”

“Deal breaker, to be more precise,” Crowley answers.

“You sell him your soul, and he makes sure that the hell hounds can’t find it.”

Sam shakes his head. “That’s impossible.”

“Was impossible,” Crowley smiles, teeth brilliant against the shadow of his beard.

Castiel frowns. “How?”

“Not simply,” Crowley says, placing one booted foot up on the desk. “If you don’t want the pups to find you, you find me. I redirect them. I wrap your soul around an object. The original holder still has a channel to it, but it’s out of their corporeal form so the hounds won’t chase them. That is if they remember to accessorize.” Crowley picks up a charm off his desk. It’s the same as the one around Luke’s neck.

“You attach the soul to an object?” Castiel asks.

“That’s right.”

Castiel hesitates. “Like a horcrux?”

Crowley grins. “That’s right. Ten points to Hufflepuff.”

“Then why don’t they go to them?” Sam asks.

“What’s that?”

“Why don’t the hounds just go to the objects, to where the soul’s been transferred?”

“I’ve always had a particular knack for cloaking spells,” Crowley answers. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small cloth purse. It shifts and moves with the sound of coins hidden within, a few hundred or so. “Pennies have really become rather useless for most other purposes these days, don’t you think?”

Luke eyes the bag. He remembers the first time Crowley dropped his penny inside of it, suddenly anonymous amongst so many. It might have been more unsettling in the moment if he wasn’t preoccupied with the burning pain still unlacing from his nerves.

“As long as I’m holding them, the dogs can’t smell a thing,” Crowley says.

Dean shakes his head. “That’s not possible.”

“Enjoyable company you’re keeping,” Crowley says to Luke.

“It isn’t,” Sam corroborates. “You shouldn’t be able to move souls like that. It’s different magic. And those hounds outside. They’re yours aren’t they? That shouldn’t be allowed. That’s not how it works.”

“Loopholes,” Crowley shrugs.

“It’s not possible,” Dean insists firmly.

“I’m a good witch,” Crowley says, face suddenly stern and unflinching. “And I’m a better gambler. I invested early, and the dividends have been exceptional.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Dean asks.

“It means I’m good at what I do.”

“What’s the catch?” Castiel says.

Crowley looks to him. “Pardon?”

“I see the benefit for others. They avoid the hounds, and hell. But what do you get out of it?”

Crowley smiles slowly. “Why don’t you ask your angels?”

Castiel glances towards them.

“Souls,” Sam says quietly. “He gets the souls.”

“Heaven’s gasoline,” Crowley says.

“Having a couple hundred souls to channel when you need them doesn’t exactly hurt in the magic department,” Luke says.

“And lovely as it is meeting new people,” Crowley eyes Luke, “I’m still wondering why you brought them here?”

Luke takes the plunge. “We need you to help us stop the apocalypse.”

Crowley looks back at him for a moment. He starts to laugh.

“It’s not a joke,” Castiel says sternly.

“No, no I see that now. Things finally make sense. I’d been wondering why the birds were all flying in the wrong direction.”

“It’s Michael,” Luke says quietly. “He’s started opening the seals.”

“The seals? As in the seven seals?” Crowley asks, attention caught.

“That’s right,” Dean answers.

“How many has he done? Two?”

“Three,” Sam says weakly.

“Ah,” Crowley leans back in his chair, tattooed hands knitting in front of his face. “I’d have thought that angels would be buying crackers if the apocalypse is on the horizon, not squatting on hunters’ shoulders.”

“It’s just us,” Sam says. “We don’t want it to happen like this.”

“And they’re looking for you. Quite keen to find you.”

“They don’t want it stopped,” Sam says.

“And why would they? It’s their happily ever after.”

“They’re wrong,” Sam insists.

“And you want help stopping big brother?”

“The world will end,” Castiel says. “Everything will end. We have to stop it. There’s no other option.”

Crowley’s quiet for a moment, tapping one finger up and down against a knuckle. “Interesting.”

“Well?” Luke presses. “Are you in?”

Crowley sits forward suddenly, elbows landing on the table. “Stay.”

“What?”

“Stay here. Take a day. Maybe two. I’ll make sure the edges are all zipped up and tidy on my protections so more birds don’t come knocking. You look as though you could use a rest.” He eyes Sam. “And they’ll be on you as soon as you get half a mile away.”

“So you say,” Dean insists.

“Oh, feel free to test me.”

“That’s not an answer,” Castiel says.

“No, it’s not,” Crowley agrees. “I have a business partner. We make all decisions in concurrence. It will have to be a discussion.”

Dean tightens his jaw. “We don’t exactly have time for debate club.”

“And I don’t make snap decisions.”

“It’s the end of the world,” Castiel pushes.

“Especially when it comes to the end of the world.”

“Fuck this,” Dean swears.

“Then fuck it,” Crowley says sweetly. “Go. Enjoy the Rapture. Or stay. And wait. It’s no skin off mine.”

He taps his finger against the edge of the desk. Luke watches it with a stern focus. Softly, just on the edge of hearing, the music is still thudding behind them.

“You won’t take long?” Luke asks.

“I think we both know I always take just the right amount of time,” Crowley grins.

Luke gives him a stern look.

“We’ll stay,” he says finally. He glances at Sam. “Right?” Sam meets his eye. He’s looking paler than he had when then entered the room. He gives a short nod.

“Great,” Dean grumbles, “just great.”

“Good,” Crowley stands, adjusting the lines of his jacket. “You can have the shed.”

 

To Castiel’s surprise, the backdoor does lead right out the back of the church. Crowley goes first, across the thin white layer of snow cast over everything. The music’s barely audible outside of the church walls. The red light is still shining inside, the shapes and shadows still flit back and forth behind it. 

Between two oak trees is a tiny ramshackle shed. It looks to be in almost worse condition than the church. Castiel would put it at less than ten square feet, probably just enough room inside for a lawnmower and a few gardening tools. One side of the roof sags badly, as though its suffered some nervous system collapse.

Castiel frowns at it skeptically, but he keeps his questions silent for now. 

Crowley stops just in front of the door and the rest of them follow suit behind, breath catching cloudy on the cold of the night. Crowley whistles softly as he makes a quick series of gestures in front of the door. Castiel tries to follow them but he moves too quickly, and all told it takes only half a second before he pushes down the handle and shoves open the weary wooden door.

Warmth wafts out of the entrance. Thankfully not the heavy tongue-slackening sexual wave of the church, but a comforting warm that pulls them forward. Luke steps in first, then Castiel, and finally, hesitantly, the angels. Crowley doesn’t follow them.

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” he winks and pushes the door shut.

“So,” Dean says, “when do you think the walls start compressing us?”

Luke turns towards the waiting rooms. “It’s safe. Trust me.”

“Why?” Dean pushes. “Because you brought us to a sex magic den and sold your soul to a witch?”

“Rented,” Luke corrects.

“Right, right, much better.”

“Lay off,” Sam says. His voice is weak and he’s supporting himself on the wall. “We’re here. Let’s just get some rest.”

Castiel frowns at him. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Sam says hurriedly, moving deeper into the place past them.

It’s quite a nice house he realizes as they move through it. Small but elegant, and royal luxury compared to where he usually ends up sleeping out on the road. 

The entry hallway that they started in leads to an open living room with a tiered wooden floor, large sheepskin rugs, and a fire glowing across from them. It’s all clean lines and minimalist decor. The kitchen’s attached to the living room, chilled steel counters and appliances quietly shining in the dark.

Almost the entirety of the main room is surrounded by glass and looking out those windows for the first time does come as a shock. The house is stuck on the side of an outstretched mountain face. Outside it’s all long, deep slopes and scattered, snow heavy pine trees. The mountains are young and angry, all jagged edges and broken corners. The Rockies maybe. But he supposes it could just as easily be the Himalayas given the circumstances. The moon is high and bold, shedding cold silver light across the toothy cliffs.

There’s a spiral staircase that leads both up and down on the opposite side of the kitchen. Going up there’s two bedrooms that also look out over the mountains in the same direction, south-west he thinks. There’s a large bed in each, but one’s certainly a little bigger, and the bathroom off of it has a tub as well as a shower so he guesses that’s supposed to be the master. The other must be the guest, and at the bottom of the spiral stairs is a long room looking out at the slopes, which must have been intended for children, with two bunk beds against the far wall and a wide clear floor, wooden like all the rest with those thick sheep skin rugs. Minimal colors. Simple but expensive looking furnishings.

All of them separate with hardly any conversation. Luke claims the master apparently without even the consideration of a question. Castiel’s not sure where the angels ended up, but the second bedroom seems about right for him.

He stands at the window in the dark room for a long while. The moonlight cuts the snowy shapes like paper into stark light and dark. Far down the slope he can see a few orange specks huddled together for warmth. Maybe it’s the Alps. That seems a safer guess than anything else. But who knows. Maybe it’s nowhere. Some limbo pulled out of imagination. For all he knows he’s not in this house at all, he could be standing in the corner of that old shed, simply assuming all this luxury is surrounding them. Magic was always a twisty business.

Castiel puts his hand to the glass. It’s cold under the tips of his fingers. He turns, heads to the bed and switches on the soft light by its side. It brightens up the room pleasantly. He’d heard once that if light switches work it means you’re not dreaming. It’s not entirely comforting.

He sits down on the edge of the bed and realizes that he’s left everything back in the minivan. Luke as well, but Luke seems to have that hunter gift of being able to sleep instantly anywhere and everywhere. 

Should he get his things? If he goes to the door will it even open? If he goes outside will it be the church yard or the driveway of a Swedish hideaway? 

If he walks outside will he be able to get back in?

Well, he doesn’t seem to be ready to go to sleep anyways.

The door does open when he reaches it, which is a nice surprise. It’s the churchyard again. Almost just how they left it. The moon’s a little further across the sky. There’s a red glow still coming from the windows, but it’s softer now, and there are no longer twisting pulsing shapes behind it.

Castiel takes a step out onto the snow. His hand lingers on the latch of the door. He can’t remember the gesture Crowley made to open it, so rather than shutting it all he way he kicks a stray twig inside to stop it from shutting. He walks three meters across the yard then doubles back to check. The door still swings open to the house.

He turns back to the yard and that’s when he notices, the music’s changed. It’s still coming from the church but it’s not nearly what it was. It’s distant, like someone playing a stereo rather than psychically transmitting a song to the beat of his pulse. It’s even familiar. Something he’s heard before.

He steps closer to the worn walls carefully. The hell hounds are probably still watching him, unseen and sharp eyed in the darkness. 

The scene is almost stranger now, at least before he could feel the magic. Now, with just the stillness, and an old song playing behind worn church walls, it’s haunting in a way it hadn’t been with the heat of spells slipping under his skin.

The windows are low, so he hardly has to make an effort to peer inside. There’s only two people left inside the church. And he’s close enough now to recognize the sixties melody. 

“And you wear that cute miniskirt with your brother’s sloppy shirt, huh, gotta admit it, girl that I can dig it,”

There’s a disco ball in the center of the ceiling. He doesn’t remember seeing that before.

”Oogum oogum boogum boogum, Boogum now baby you're castin' your spell on me,”

They’re dancing. Slow and close, but playful as well, and right on the beat.

It’s easy enough to recognize one as Crowley, with his jacket and scruff, but the other… It’s a woman, taller than him by a few inches but he thinks that’s mostly the height of her shoes.

Crowley spins her lightly, with a hand just tracing around her waist and suddenly Castiel can see her face. It’s the woman from the crowd. The one no one seemed to see but him. 

“I can't move, you're in the groove, Would you believe little girl that I am crazy 'bout you,”

There’s something hypnotic about the way they move. As if there’s magnets between them that push and pull all at once.

She’s smiling, that wide white grin. Gaze so sharp and bright under perfect makeup, lips dark and eyeliner drawn out to exact points. He’s wearing his own smirk, watching the way she moves with full unadulterated focus under his heavy-lidded eyes.

Her hand ghosts under his jaw as she spins back into his arms. They sway, back and forth. They almost look as though they’re both kids making fun of the music and some elderly couple soaking in the nostalgia all at once. There’s a mischief in the just-not-there touches, in the quick smiles, and the slow, slick, rhythm that they both seem to find so effortlessly. 

Her fingers suddenly catch around the collar of his jacket, pulling him closer and he obeys, leaning in, mouth just open, just half an inch from hers. They hang like that for a moment, then another, lips half smiling, daring.

She moves first, darting her tongue out just to slip over his lower lip and he grins wider than before, one hand sliding right up the side of her thigh, slipping under the tight fit of her dress as he eases an open mouth onto hers. 

Long nails slide into the short of his hair, twisting and the hand under her dress shifts, easily, practiced. It’s half a second before she tosses her head back with a delighted gasp.

Crowley smiles, watching the way her neck arcs with a pleasant contented sort of expression.

He looks at Castiel, and winks.

Castiel steps back from the window very quickly. He walks without stopping all the way across the field and doesn’t look back once. 

When he comes back from the cards, with his bag and Luke’s, the music’s changed. 

“You got soul, too much soul, Foxy clothes, the cutest nose, The greatest shape, There's nothing fake about you, Baby you got it.”

He doesn’t look back inside.

 

Luke wakes up earlier than he meant to. No thanks to the sun which has decided it would like to spend it’s morning slapping him in the face. 

He groans and tries to ignore it, rolling over to the other side. The bed is soft, and smells like absolutely nothing but clean. It’s exceptionally welcoming after a year spent sleeping in places that smell like at least three kinds of mold. But the sun isn’t letting up anytime soon, and the more he tries to drive his head under the cool comfort of the pillows the worse it gets.

He sits up and remembers exactly why the sun’s feeling particularly jaunty. At least five stunning mountain peaks are bouncing it through an entire wall of glass and right into the bedroom. The view really is stunning: all sharp edges and brilliant snow and a perfectly clear pale blue sky dashed out behind it all. It’s a good enough picture to actually pull him out of bed.

He stands by the window in his boxers for a few good minutes taking it in. He’s not sure where it is. Somewhere high, and cold, and bright. That will have to do.

When he turns back he notices his duffle-bag on the floor just inside the door. He frowns at it. Castiel likely. At least that’s what he’s going to choose to believe, it’s a little less creepy than Crowley rummaging through his truck and sneaking in on tip-toes while he was sleeping.

The water pressure in the rough-stone tiled shower is a small miracle, and he’s still scrubbing some of the water out of his hair when he makes his way back downstairs.

The fire is still lapping away happily even though he’s fairly sure no one put any wood on it last night. He gives it a good glare before turning into the kitchen. The cabinets are stocked like any decent safe house: coffee, dry goods, etc. He opens the fridge and there’s yogurts, eggs, and even vegetables that look as though they were bought straight from some market an hour ago.

He shuts the fridge doors and turns back to the rest of the room, both hands resting on the steel counter-top.

Well, if no one’s awake, he might as well make himself useful.

By the time Castiel wanders down the stairs in a t-shirt and jeans with half his hair sticking straight up, Luke’s just plating the eggs. The last half dozen strips of bacon are coming to a crisp, and the sixth slice of french toast is waiting patiently next to them.

Castiel blinks a few times. “What’s happening?”

“Coffee?” Luke asks, wiggling the french press in his direction.

Castiel frowns at the food suspiciously. “How do you know it isn’t poisoned?”

Luke rolls his eyes, filling up a mug without permission. “You know what they say about gift horses.”

“I know what a gift horse is,” Castiel frowns. “But I think that if someone receives inside their home they should check inside for intruders.”

Luke pushes the mug at him. “Just shut up and eat your breakfast.”

Castiel gives him a look but takes the mug all the same, holding it close, and moving across the slip of the wooden floor to sit on one of the stools behind the kitchen island.

He sips the coffee carefully, blowing against the heat and sending up steam in easy curling waves around his face. He’s looking out the windows at the crisp peaks of the mountains.

“Where do you think we are?”

Luke shrugs. “Austria.”

Castiel makes a sound of agreement.

Luke flips a slice of french toast. The eggs ooze out against the black of the skillet, sizzling and crisping in the heat. 

“You know,” Castiel begins. His voice is quiet. “Gabriel used to tell a story like this.”

Luke adjusts the heat on the pan. “Like what?”

“Just this,” Castiel says. He slides a plate close but doesn’t touch it yet. “We used to make up stories about you. It seems now like everyone did, hunter stories. But these were different. He was the one who made them up really, I was never very good at it.”

Castiel pushes against the french toast with his fork. Luke doesn’t turn to him. He keeps his attention focused on the stove.

“There were different stories, variations, but you were always there. Our brother. You came and took us on adventures. Those were the ones I liked, where we were pirates or spies or cowboys. But Gabriel liked the simpler stories more.”

Luke hears Castiel’s fork press against the plate, as if he’s cutting a bite.

“There was this one he told all the time. We were in a house. Not a church. A real house and a dog came upstairs and woke us up in the morning. A golden lab. Like the one the Mitchell’s used to leave outside during Sunday services. It would run up the stairs and lick our faces and we’d already smell bacon cooking. We’d hurry down the stairs, all wooden, with a carpet in the middle, like they have in movies about Christmas. And you’d be there. In the kitchen. Making us breakfast. You’d make sure we ate everything, and then you’d give us our bags, and we’d get in your car, and you’d drive us to school. We’d complain about homework, and you’d tell us how to talk to girls, and how to deal with bullies.”

Castiel laughs a little. The sunlight cuts hard patterns on the kitchen floor. Luke stares hard at the skillet in his hand.

“That was it. Stupid really. He used to tell it all the time.” Castiel turns. “…Is that burning?”

Luke startles. “Shit—“

He scrapes the toast off the pan and tosses it to the side quickly, snapping on the shiny steel fan above. He tries to find something else to do at the counter. He isn’t sure he’s ready to turn around. 

“What’s this?” Dean’s voice asks. He’s leaning against the banister of the spiral staircase. Luke didn’t hear him walk up them.

“Breakfast,” Castiel answers.

Dean looks at the scene skeptically. “You cook?”

“I did,” Luke says. “Just now.”

“I thought hunters’ lived off of packs of Combos and RedBull special deals.”

“Was that what our Nature program said?”

The steps make sound this time as Sam pulls himself up behind Dean. He’s even paler than he was before, and his hand is tightened against the railing. Luke swallows and looks away.

Castiel stares. “Are you… alright?”

Sam clears his throat. “It’ll be fine.”

“No,” Dean says. “It won’t. We have to deal with it.”

Sam shakes his head. “Dean—“

“Enough. We’re dealing. Now. And we need you to help,” he says to them.

Luke frowns. Castiel puts his fork down. “What do you mean?”

There’s a knock on the door. 

“Perfect,” Luke sighs.

Another sounds.

“The witch can wait,” Dean insists.

“We’re guests,” Luke says, crossing the floor. “And he really doesn’t have to knock.”

“Yeah,” Dean grumbles after him. “What a peach.”

Luke grabs the handle and pulls it open. He blinks. It’s almost as bright in Missouri as it is inside the house.

“‘Morning neighbor,” Crowley smiles cheekily.

Luke gives him a once over. “Are you waiting to be invited in?”

“I like to allow space for manners, before disregarding them.”

Luke steps aside, sweeping his arm in welcome.

Crowley gives a small nod before moving into the house. Dean’s eyeing him the moment he steps into the living room, like a pet spider someone’s unexpectedly let free to roam where it pleases. 

Crowley squints at the mountains and the breakfast as he enters, taking in the scene.

“I see well-fucked morning hair runs in the family,” he notes.

Castiel blushes, instantly pushing his own down.

“Don’t bother dear,” Crowley smiles, “suits you.”

“What do you want?” Dean asks.

“Firstly, a little respect,” Crowley says, looking at him with direct and sharp focus. “Since it seems if it weren’t for me and my scummy little charms, you’d be some squad leader’s favorite scabbard by now.”

Dean grumbles, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Crowley peers over his shoulder in Sam’s direction. “Luke?”

“Yeah?”

“I think you need to shove some more batteries in that one. Don’t they come in the box?”

“Have you decided?” Castiel breaks in.

“Yes,” Crowley smiles at him, “I would like some coffee. Thank you for offering.”

“Crowley,” Luke sighs.

“Fine,” Crowley shrugs. “It’s not as if you’re rubbing your arses all over my twelve-thousand thread counts. No need to be hospitable.”

“There’s not a lot of time,” Sam insists weakly.

“Actually, there’s one week. At least. And the answer is no.”

Luke frowns. “What do you mean ‘no’?”

“What? Waiting for a safe-word?”

“We need help,” Castiel insists.

“And I’m not the one to give it. At least not in the way you’d like.”

“Fine. I get it.” Luke furrows his brow. “What do you want?”

“Darling,” Crowley tuts, “you misunderstand me.”

“I understand you just fine,” Luke pushes. “What do you want?”

“Nothing. The answer’s no.”

“The world is going to end,” Castiel insists. “Everything that you know will be gone. We have to stop this. There’s no choice.”

“There’s always a choice. Whether you like it or not.”

“You’re surprised?” Dean scoffs. “Witches don’t make good heroes.”

“I should hope not for your sake,” Crowley says. “Heroes haven’t historically made the best hosts.”

Luke leans forward, placing both hands on the table. “You really don’t care if this all ends? Your business? Everything you’ve built just, woosh, wiped away by some heavenly tight-asses who can’t wait to watch you burn?”

Crowley’s lips pull towards a smirk. “They can try. And I’ve never been impartial to a tight-ass.”

Luke narrows his eyes. “This isn’t like you. We’re looking at real magic here. Dark magic. Old magic. The kind of magic that cuts universes in two. You really don’t want to get close to that? To see what its made of?”

Crowley meets his gaze. “I won’t say it’s not appealing.”

“Then what? Why not?”

He sighs. “Angels and my business do not tend to mix well.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “You mentioned a partner. A business partner. Is this their influence?”

“If you must know, my partner does not care for angels.”

Dean snorts. “I get it. You’re scared.”

Crowley holds his gaze. “Do I look as though I’m quaking?”

Dean pushes right back. “You’ve got hell hounds patrolling this place, you’ve got blood magic up to the thighs, I don’t know where you learned that sigil on your left wrist but we made damn sure in the eleventh century it wasn’t in any print on the face of the earth. This partner of yours is swinging some shit around they can’t handle. You don’t want angels here. You don’t want us sniffing out whatever freak is turning these tricks for you. And they don’t want us catch that scent either. They don’t want to risk any heavenly power catching wind, because they know when they’re in over their head.”

Luke glances at Crowley. He hasn’t moved. His hands are in the pockets of his dark jeans. There’s a small smile on his face, a smile that doesn’t seem terribly concerned with much of anything.

“That’s right. Isn’t it?” Dean pushes. “Know how I know? Because they don’t have the balls to show their face while we’re here.”

“Maybe I just don’t like your face, Dean.”

Dean turns so fast Luke’s not sure he even sees his neck swivel.

There’s a woman sitting by the fireplace. She’s leaned back in the minimalist leather chair, bare legs crossed over each other. One of her red-bottomed stilettos is hanging loosely off her raised foot, dangling from her toes in a careless way that mirrors the messy toss of her dark hair and the smoky shadow around her eyes. She smiles, and the green of her gaze slices deviance straight as an arrow.

“But you are right,” she continues, “I haven’t got the balls.”


	16. Proper Hosts

Castiel reaches for the knife tucked into the side of his jeans. The woman looks at him and his hand freezes half way there. Something flares in his chest. 

Demon. She’s a demon. 

He grits his teeth and tries to grab his knife but the bones in his hand twist and grind so painfully he gasps out.

She tuts. “Rude.”

“Let him go, Bela.” Dean’s wings are twitching behind him, fluttering in and out of dimensional sight as if at any moment they could snap free. 

Next to him Sam’s gone alert, posture straightening more than it has in days, expression set and wary. The woman in the chair doesn’t seem concerned, but there’s something daring and dangerous under her expression.

Castiel sees Luke raise his hands. “Alright, alright, let’s all just calm down.”

“I will if you will,” she says, eyeing the space behind Dean’s back.

Castiel grits his teeth, trying to move his hand. His heart is thudding panic up through his chest, but it’s no use. His fingers won’t move and the harder he tries the sharper the pain snakes up his arm.

“Let him go,” Dean insists.

“Put those away before you take someone’s eye out.”

“No chance.”

“Can we all please just calm down,” Luke says a little louder.

“I’m not ‘calming down’ for a demon,” Dean insists.

Luke glares at Crowley. “Little help?”

Crowley shrugs. “I think it’s rather adorable.”

Castiel swallows. He closes his eyes. Its been fourteen years, and at least a dozen demons since that night. He has to calm down now before it’s too late. 

He pushes memories away and swallows. “Fine. It’s fine.” He pulls his hand back and this time it gives. He puts it palm down on the countertop. 

Dean doesn’t seem terribly comforted, but it’s harder to see the wings slipping against the air behind his back. He shakes his head, glaring at Luke. “Demons man, seriously?”

Luke glares back. “I didn’t know.” He eyes the woman in the chair carefully. “Although admittedly I do feel like a bit of an idiot now.”

“I was wondering why you hadn’t guessed,” Crowley says idly. “But your problems are always such, well, problems.” 

“I knew something was off here the second we got out of the damn minivan,” Dean growls.

“Isn’t he clever?” the woman smiles at Crowley.

“Shut up,” Dean snarls. “What the hell are you doing here anyways? I thought witches were ‘beneath’ you.”

“And I thought humans were beneath you.”

Dean’s expression darkens. “This is different.”

She shrugs. “So is this. And since I’m considerably more comfortable with my past, I’m happy to acknowledge that on the whole witches have been beneath me. This one isn’t.”

“Most of the time,” Crowley smiles.

Sam makes a disgusted face against the railings.

“I see how it is now,” Dean says, looking between her and Crowley. “She doesn’t want you to help us. So you don’t. And why would she? If Rapture is angel Christmas, it’s demons’ New Year. They’ll be the ones who rip most of the world in half if that final seal cracks.”

“It’s not that simple,” Bella pronounces.

“Bullshit,” Dean says. He turns to Luke and Castiel. “The fourth seal: I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. That’s what we’re looking at if we don’t stop this now. The fourth seal cracks, and every demon gets a free pass upstairs.”

Castiel stares. Something twists in his stomach and suddenly he isn’t sitting in that room any longer. He’s lying on his stomach, under the low wood of a pew, and there’s a hand tight on his arm.

“Promise me you won’t come out Castiel. No matter what you hear. No matter what you see. You must promise me.”

He blinks the thought away firmly. He looks at Crowley. “You’re going to let the world end, for a demon?”

“Rather a dramatic group don’t you think?” Crowley says in Bella’s direction. She rolls her eyes in agreement.

Castiel turns to Luke. “We should leave. Now.”

Dean huffs his agreement.

Luke’s brow is heavy. His arms cross in front of his chest. “So why aren’t we dead?”

Crowley blinks. “Pardon me?”

“If demons are so eager to see the world end, why not kill us? You know we want to stop it.”

Bella’s eyes shine back at him. “Maybe he won’t let me.”

Luke smiles. “You’re his partner, isn’t that right? And honestly, he’s never been what you’d exactly call sentimental.”

“I am standing right here you know,” Crowley says.

“This is a pretty neat operation that the two of you have going,” Luke continues. “It’s smart. In a way that makes very particular use of existing systems. Do other demons like the fact that your witch is interfering with their deals? Seems like that might break some rules.”

“Bend is a better word for it,” Bella says. She’s eyeing Luke with a relaxed interest.

“How does it work? You create some bridge between you; he gets some of your power and you get the afterglow off all these souls he’s toting around? Is it like the rest of this magic? Soul binding? I bet hell wouldn’t like the sound of that. Knitting up with mortals rather than just sucking them dry.”

“Yeah no shit,” Dean grumbles, gesturing to Crowley. “His soul looks someone tried to knit with tar and seriously underestimated things.”

“Demon’s don’t have souls,” Castiel insists.

“Everything that walks has a soul,” Bella returns, “even some things that don’t feel up for walking any longer. Life is the sign of a soul. They may not be thumping away all bright and merry like yours, but they exist. Some may be sealed away in a locked box hidden away, some fallen out of use, stuffed away, rotting in on themselves as days go by, and some,” she glances at the angels, “are simply little streams in a larger river that loops twice around the cosmos for no good reason whatsoever.”

Castiel doesn’t look at her. It doesn’t help, and he’s not sure he believes it. It’s easier to know that somethings are the way they are because they’re simply broken or put together in the wrong order. He’s not sure he wants to live in a world without that excuse.

“That’s not a common perspective,” Luke observes.

“It’s correct. Common is irrelevant.”

“Interesting demon,” Luke says to Crowley.

“Dangerous,” Dean corrects. “And don’t think that because she’s made some Babylonian contract with Glinda here she’s any different from the rest of them.”

“So sensitive,” Bella says.

“The last time I saw you,” Sam glares, “you were taking the eyes out of a convent.”

“They said they couldn’t stand to look at such an aberration. I was only doing them a favor.” She narrows her eyes. “You’re looking a bit peaky there Sam, someone forget to ring your bell?”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Dean says firmly, standing tight at Sam’s side.

“I don’t like tousling with angels,” Bella says, “I tend to break nails.”

“I knew it,” Dean says smugly, “you were too scared to show your face before and you’re too scared to stand against heaven now at the end of it all. Is that it?”

“Not scared, smart.” But there is something wary under her expression, something Castiel thinks he could easily call fear.

“You’ve been very clever,” Luke says. “All of this, it’s almost genius. But being smart enough to let the world end, how does that make any kind of sense?”

“I’d rather not have my intelligence assessed by a broken-knuckled hunter who’s hardly lived through a third of a century.”

Luke’s expression darkens. “Its been a lot longer than that.”

Bella studies him and suddenly her eyes light up. She looks to Crowley. “He’s that one? The one who got out?”

Crowley eyes him. “Oh yes, the hunter that escaped hell. Very impressive title.”

“There’s a few stories about that downstairs,” she says giving him a good once over, “I’d be interested to know how many are true.”

“Not my favorite subject,” Luke says shortly. “But I know demons, I know enough to see that you’re a little different. You’ve built something here, and if there’s no humans left it will all fall apart. Why let that happen?”

Bella holds his gaze. “I have built something. It’s practical, and it’s not something I’d throw away easily. But what you’re facing is an entirely different game.”

“If we don’t stop it, it’s the end of everything. It’s that simple.”

“It’s not,” she says simply. “They’re idiots. All of them. Upstairs and down. Heaven thinks the world will be better once all the sinners are punished. Hell thinks that ripping the earth apart will be the happy ending its always been waiting for. But none of them realize that when they tear off all that pretty, shiny wrapping paper, there’s going to be nothing left underneath. Destruction is a strong impulse in the superhuman. It’s easy, and instinctive, and they’d like to think they’re above the scrambling little apes that make such a mess of things. But the truth is they’ll be bored stiff within a millennia. They’ll turn on each other once the human’s are gone: hell and heaven, a great battle to end all battles. I’m sure there’s quite a few placing their bets and shining their armor for that inevitability already. One side will win. That’s how fate turns. And then what? How long before the dragging weight of time pushes them in on each other. It will be the only thing left, and destruction is too strong of an instinct to ignore for things like us. It’s an implosion. Slow, and long, and starting with you,” she says to Castiel and Luke. “They’re idiots. Short sighted and greedy, and I hope you do stop it. I really do.”

“Then help us,” Luke says. Dean’s crossed his arms tight in front of his chest, but he says nothing.

The demon and Crowley pass a look. It’s short but strong. She turns back to Luke.

“You don’t know what you’re walking into, do you? Did you not hear him before? All of hell will pour out of this next seal. And from then on things just get worse.”

“I can handle hell,” Luke returns.

“You know,” she says, turning to look at him firmly, “I’m not sure you can. I’ve heard the stories about you. All of them. Some demons say they let you escape. More tell of a great hunter that tore through their ranks. A human unlike anything they’d ever seen: strong as Hercules and clever as Loki, and they fell before the mighty strength of such a warrior. That’s how you escaped they say. Because how else could a mere human escape so many powerful, ferocious, worthy demons? What else would they say when someone asked how such an impossible thing occurred?

“But there’s another story. No more than a whisper, a voice deep in the back of a cell way down deep, deep below. A voice that says a weak, torn apart thing, with hardly a scrap of skin or soul, slunk through shadows, and got lucky. Just lucky at the right time. It says this wasted creature fell on it, that one demon, with just enough desperation to manage to stumble out with one gasp, back into the world that spawned such desperation.”

Castiel feels his stomach twist tighter under his ribs. He wants to look at Luke. He wants to see how much of it is true. But he can’t bring himself to do it.

“I don’t know which story is true,” Bella says, “but to be perfectly honest, I hope it’s the last one. Because that’s what makes real heroes. Survival.” 

“Is that what you’re going to do?” Luke asks, voice steady. “Survive?”

“I’ve made a life slipping between shadows,” Bella says. “I don’t fancy the idea of standing in a spot light with a giant ‘fuck you’ sign strapped to my chest the second hell’s door opens.”

“It won’t open,” Castiel says.

She turns to him. “What’s that?”

It’s hard to look at her without feeling the cold stone of the church floor under his fingers but he holds firm. “We’ll stop it. That’s why we’re here. And we don’t need a demon’s help to do it.”

Crowley let’s out a short laugh behind him and Bella smiles. “That’s right. Because I’m just a monster.”

Castiel holds her sharp eyes. “That’s right.”

“And these things,” she nods her head in the direction of the angels, “the ones you’re going to save the world with, they’re so much better?”

Castiel’s answer sticks in his throat. He doesn’t know. He hopes, but hope isn’t truth, no matter how much he wishes it could be.

“You think demons are the only ones that have their fun with hairless monkeys?” she smiles. “Haven’t you told them?” she looks at Dean with that sharp white grin. “Haven’t you told them what heaven’s finest do with ‘Crawlers’?”

“That’s enough Bella,” Dean says.

“Sam’s not so bad,” Bella says, “he was always a bit of a softer. At least with humans. Once some time had passed after that day, the day humans killed themselves a monster.”

“I said that’s enough,” Dean growls. The wings are slipping between folds in the air again. He’s furious, and Castiel suddenly realizes he doesn’t know why.

“Of course Sam found ways to vent that anger for a century or two. There was that town, the one North of what is it now, Pakistan? You know, the one where they’d taken that girl. If I remember the fall out was quite large. Three miles was it? Just gone. I’m sure those bandits didn’t realize that such a simple choice would have doomed so many innocent little lives along with their rotten ones.”

“You don’t know anything,” Sam says firmly. “And there’s nothing similar about us.”

“You and me?” Bella says. “No, maybe not. You’re all anger, all tightly wound in a firmly bomb that ticks away until the timer runs out. But Dean, well, you and your little squad, that was part of the pitch wasn’t it. You were supposed to enjoy it. Watching those Crawlers squirm.”

Dean’s wings snap, filling the room all at once. But Bella’s already gone.

The room is silent. Castiel stares at the chair Bella left behind. There’s a slight smell of sulfur on the air.

Crowley is eyeing the wings with the expression of a cat that’s seen an injured bird limping through the grass.

Dean takes a deep breath. The wings blink away as quickly as they came.

Crowley turns to Luke. “Keep them contained would you? Stunts like that only make them easier to spot.”

Luke glares back at him. “So, that’s it then?”

“No,” Crowley shrugs. “What gave you that idea?”

Castiel turns to him with a questioning look.

“I’ll help. As much as I can. From here. I won’t come with you, I think that’s been made clear enough. But I’ll do what I can in the meantime.”

Dean’s fists are still tight at his side. “We are not staying.”

“He,” Crowley gestures to Sam’s pale face, “is in no state to move. The second you step out of my wards they’ll be on you. And that last seal will have made the gap wider. There will be more than there were last time. You’re not up for it. You need to recharge him, and I think you know that as well as I do.”

Crowley turns back to Luke.

“I’ll see what I can turn up. Send you out at least a little better off than when you came in.”

“We’d be better off if you came with us,” Luke returns sharply.

“Sorry darling,” Crowley shrugs. “Hands are tied, and I’d like to keep them that way.”

He turns around, walking for the door. “I’ll be in my office, when you’re ready to talk apocalypse.”

After a few moments the door shuts behind him.

Castiel looks down to his breakfast. Its gone cold. He isn’t hungry any more anyways. 

Luke’s limbs still seem tight behind the counter. He puts both hands down on the cool steel, eyeing Sam. “What does he mean ‘recharge’?”

“Nothing,” Sam says quickly.

“It’s not nothing,” Dean says. His voice is tired, expression still laced with frustration. He runs a hand through his hair. “Look, we need your help.”

 

It’s half an hour before Luke gets up off of the couch. He walks to the window, looking out over the sharp mountains as the sun eases along them, twisting the shadows in the opposite direction one foot at a time.

Castiel adjusts in one of the chairs, leaning forward. It’s the seat furthest from where the demon had been sitting. He still isn’t looking well. He hasn’t looked right since she appeared, Luke thinks they are all starting to develop an expression of restrained fury and worn nostalgia so it’s not all that surprising. Luke suspects he looks even worse off himself.

Castiel starts. “You need to… channel one of our souls?”

“Heaven runs off souls,” Dean explains again. “That’s where our power comes from. Stuff dies. Souls join the flow. We channel that flow. But Sam’s lines are getting thin. So we need to source locally.”

“We don’t need to do anything,” Sam says where he’s sitting. “I just need to rest.”

“You’re getting worse,” Dean insists, worry scrambling against his eyes.

“I’ll be fine,” Sam replies.

“You won’t,” Luke says suddenly, turning back to them. “And we can’t afford it.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest. “What do we do?” 

Dean sighs. “Well, we’re going to need a volunteer.”

“I’ll do it,” Castiel says instantly.

“No,” Dean says. Quickly. Very quickly.

Luke tilts his head in his direction. Dean’s cheeks heat up slightly. “I just mean,” he starts to explain, “it will work better if it’s you.”

Luke narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“Because you’ve got a bond,” Dean says.

Sam looks massively uncomfortable where he’s sitting.

“I’m not considered sullied goods?” Luke asks. “What with the witch carrying around part of my soul in his pocket?”

Sam’s face twists slightly at the sound of that.

“It’s firm magic,” Dean insists. “We can’t see anything wrong with your soul; it’s a direct channel. Strong. It should be fine.”

“Should be?” Luke raises an eyebrow.

“Well…” Dean starts.

“It’s not necessary.”

“I’ll do it—“

“Enough,” Luke breaks in. “It’s fine. I’ll do it.”

Dean nods. “Right, good. Then, uh,” he glances at Castiel. “We should probably step out.”

“Why?” Castiel asks sharply.

“Trust me,” Dean returns, “it’s just a good idea.”

Sam sits a little sterner in his seat, tired expression locked on the floor.

“You should talk to Crowley,” Luke says roughly, glancing at them.

“I’m not talking to the fucking witch,” Dean grumbles.

“I’ll talk to the fucking witch.” Castiel stands, face tired, shoulders loose.

Dean crosses the floor and together they head up the few steps towards the door. 

“Hey,” Sam says. They turn back. “Be careful.”

Dean nods. “Yeah, yeah you too.”

Their steps echo one at a time down the small hallway. There’s the sound of the door opening, a few birds in the trees beyond, and then it shuts again, leaving nothing but silence. Suddenly, the house feels much smaller. Closer. Quieter.

“So,” Luke starts, trying to shrug off the feeling. “Should I start saying Hail Marys or something along those lines?”

Sam just manages to smile. “Uh no.” He supports himself on the arms of the chair and manages to get to his feet. He really isn’t doing well at all. An instinct almost makes Luke reach out and help him up but he doesn’t move, keeping back a few feet with his arms crossed, eyeing him warily.

“Look, this really isn’t,” Sam starts. Then stops. He sighs, swiping his hair out of his face. “This isn’t going to be easy. And I don’t want to make you do something you’re not…” he tries.

He looks so tired and so concerned that Luke feels a momentary pang of something almost guilty in his chest. “Just tell me what to do.”

Sam swallows and nods in the direction of the chair. “You should probably be sitting down.”

Luke looks from the simple, light-framed chair to Sam and then back again. He uncrosses his arms and moves to it. It’s not exactly comfortable, but not uncomfortable either. He probably wouldn’t be comfortable anywhere just now come to think of it.

Sam’s flexing his hand against his side, brow furrowed. “Alright, this is… uh, kinda tricky.”

“What’s going to happen exactly?” Luke asks. His brain is doing that obnoxious thing where it runs through all the kinds of pain he’s ever felt and tries to guess what’s coming next. It never helps.

“I have to access your soul, which means touching and not touching.”

“Clearer explanations please, Sam.”

“Right,” Sam tries again, clearing his throat. “I’m going to put my hand on your chest. Then through your chest.” Luke makes a face. Sam starts again quickly. “Not physically. Dimensionally. I’ll have to get at the soul and that’s not on this plane of reality.”

“You’re going to put your hand through my chest?”

“Once I can reach the soul it should only take a moment. The whole thing should only take a few seconds.”

Luke swallows. “And then you’ll be alright.”

“I’ll be better.”

Luke’s quiet for a moment. “I asked for you, on that mountain when things got a little too tight. There were too many of them and I called out to you and you did that,” he twists his hand around, “that thing, with the light and the ‘smiting’. You’ve been like this ever since. Is that why?”

“I’m like this because Heaven is letting go of me.”

“Yeah, but that probably didn’t help things right?”

Sam’s expression is dauntless. “It doesn’t matter.”

Luke looks away. He takes a deep breath. “Alright, well let’s get it over with.”

Sam steps closer. He rolls the sleeve of his flanneled shirt up his forearm. Luke watches him. The room feels even smaller, all the sounds closer, all the motions tighter. 

Sam has freckles on his arm. Just a few. No scars. Not like his arms.

Sam breathes in and Luke can almost feel it. “Things are going to get close. I can’t not listen when this happens. You’ll hear things too. See things. It will be jumbled but… I wanted you to know.”

Great. He nods sharply before he realizes what a terrible idea this is. “Yeah. Right.”

Sam takes another step. He’s standing just between Luke’s knees now. Luke leans back in the seat, away, hands tight on the arms of the chair. His pulse was gone quick and his breathing isn’t acting like it’s supposed to. Nerves. 

He closes his eyes firmly.

“Just, one more thing,” Sam tries.

Luke opens his eyes. “Jesus Christ, I get it! Can we just do this?”

Sam look down at him. “It can feel bad… or good.”

Luke blinks. “Do I have a choice?”

“Yes.”

Luke glares back at him. “Are you actually asking me which I’d prefer?”

Sam looks uncomfortable. “Bad. Or very good.”

Ah. Something tightens in his chest nastily. He tries to push the thoughts away. But he can’t. Things are a lot less simple now. 

The questions twists and turns nastily against him. It should be an easy thing to answer. It should be so easy. But it isn’t. Because there’s more to this than that. Because there was a reason the first girl he kissed had brown hair just above her shoulders, a reason the first boy he fucked was an inch and a half taller than him. It’s the same reason a year ago something soft and familiar flashed in the eyes of a bartender and he spent the night pushing them back against the leather seats of the truck, drawing out one breathless sound after the other. 

There’s a reason. One he’d been trying for weeks to forget.

He’s quiet for a long moment.

“Good,” he says finally.

Sam doesn’t ask him if he’s sure.

He puts one large hand on Luke’s shoulder and pushes him back against the seat. Luke swallows and tries to stop his heart from thudding behind his ribs.

“Ready?” Sam asks.

Luke closes his eyes tightly. “No.”

Sam pauses tentatively and that tugs at a tight place in his chest. 

“Do it,” Luke whispers.

There’s a beat, and then a wide hand press against the center of his chest.

Everything happens very fast.

A feeling pushes into his chest as strong as a punch, only there’s no pain. Just warmth. Impossibly deep warmth. Luke gasps, eyes fluttering open, but there’s no sight there now, only a cluttered light, blinking and flashing with so many images suddenly shoving against his mind that he can’t manage to catch any one of them.

The warmth slides, heavy and solid, down his limbs, through his veins, squeezing with tight pulses around his mind. Everything snaps into bright color. The thoughts rip themselves free.

He can feel his hands going tight on the chair. He can hear voices in his ears. His mother’s frightened eyes in the dark. Michael’s face laughing. Younger. So much younger. He sees Sam. Sam pushed back against the wall of some seedy motel room with his shirt rucked up above his waist, cheeks flushed, lips parted. He sees hell. His own stringy insides caught between his fingers. Warm in his hand. A fire. Flames. His skin sloughing off from the bones of his fingers one at a time. Sam. Sitting on the side of his bed. Sam. Staring back at him. 

You promised. You promised me and you didn’t come.

And then the images aren’t his anymore.

There’s a man with a dark solemn face. The face is quiet, smiling. The face is consumed with rage, screaming back at him. There’s a woman. Blonde. Older than Sam. She’s smiling at him. She’s holding his hand. She’s in chains. Screaming. Lashing out at figures in the dark. She’s still. Hanging limp against the binds. Dean. Face blood streaked and stone still. 

Luke.

He’s younger. Maybe sixteen. He’s standing in a field. Frost caps the tall grass all around, shining in the early morning light. One of his hands is wrapped in a bloody bandage. It seems fresh. 

Sam reaches out. But his hand falls back to his side before he can touch him.

The feeling is getting worse. Better. Worse. The tightness snakes down his limbs. Pulsing. Driving. Luke can’t take it. There’s an edge approaching. An edge he’ll have to fall over. It’s pure. Pure, perfect, and so, so—

The hand’s gone.

Luke gasps.

The room snaps back around him like a slap to the face. The feeling is gone. Just gone. And suddenly, he feels so lonely he doesn’t think he can stand it. 

He gasps again, struggling for breath. He feels tears on his face.

“It will get better in a minute,” Sam’s voice says. “Just breathe.”

He tries. It’s hard. There’s something heavy and wretched stuck in his throat. There’s emotions still scratching against his brain. Images slipping behind his eyes with sharp edges.

He swallows. “Did it work?” His voice doesn’t sound right. Broken. Low.

“Yes.”

Luke takes another deep breath through his nose. “Please, leave me alone.”

Sam’s voice twists. “Luke…”

He looks up at him and it doesn’t help. Its the same face. Always the same face. The one he dreamed about. The one that smiled when he couldn’t. The one he prayed to see for seven hundred years. The one that never came.

His teeth grit. “Leave me alone.”

Sam frowns, but he turns and he does as he asks.

Luke’s stomach feels as though someone’s hooked weights against the sides. His heart is still pounding. 

There’s a little vase on the table next to him with a single dried thistle resting inside of it. 

It’s in his hand before he realizes and shattering against the far wall only a second later.

The broken glass disappears as soon as it hits the floor.

Luke leans forward, dropping his head into his hands. It doesn’t feel better. Not yet. And he’s not sure it’s ever going to.


	17. Long Weekend

It’s colder today. Cold enough that the thin snow scattered across the dead grass crunches underfoot as they cross the churchyard. There’s are some birds in the trees. Not near the church, but across the field by the dividing line between land parcels. A few grackles yell back and forth, voices crisp and vulgar in the air.

Dean digs his hands deeper into his pockets, shoulders hunching. Castiel narrows his eyes at him. He knows he isn’t cold. 

“We should leave,” Dean mutters. “Sam’s fine now, bound to be. There’s no reason to stick around.”

“I don’t like it either,” Castiel says, “but we might as well see what he can offer us.”

“He’s a witch,” Dean insists. “They always offer up the same thing: magic, darkness, the occasional lubed up broomstick. And nothing good comes from any of it.”

Castiel tries to shake off the mental image. “Luke trusts him.”

“And you trust Luke now? Just a day or two ago you were saying you didn’t know what to think. You didn’t know if he could see this through.”

“I still don’t know if he can,” Castiel says, keeping up his pace across the snow. “Maybe he can’t kill Michael, but maybe that’s what all of this is. He knows now he might not be able to and he’s trying to find others who could when the time comes.”

“Could you?” Dean asks.

Castiel frowns down at the snow. “I don’t know.”

Dean shakes his head, glaring around at the scenery. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice Bella before. I smell demon on every part of this place now. Literally.”

“The witch seems to be good at what he does,” Castiel answers. “He hid that from you. And Sam. And he seems to be hiding us from the other angels well enough.”

“So he says.”

“No matter, we might as well hear what he has to say about the seals.”

“And there’s no chance they’re just trying to split us up? Take us on one at a time?”

“There’s always a chance.”

“And we’re just fine with that?”

Castiel glances over his shoulder at him. “Worried you can’t handle it?”

Dean glares back. He sets his shoulders and leads the way across the last few meters of lawn to the back door of the church. 

The old wooden door handle sits slightly askew, worn and weary as the rest of the building. Castiel grabs the rusted metal and pulls it open. A hollow broken down back room stares back at them. There’s a few saplings trying to grow through the floor.

Castiel sighs and shuts it again. This time he knocks. Two seconds later Crowley pulls the door open. “Very prompt.” The room they left the night before now fills the space, all squished together with books and ominous odds-and-ends labeled with sharpies and masking tape. 

Dean glares around the inside but there’s no sign of Bella so he follows Castiel in. The door shuts behind them.

“Rather brisk,” Crowley notes. He wiggles a bottle of scotch out of a bookcase and sets it on his desk. “Need warming up?”

“No,” Castiel answers.

“Suit yourselves.”

Dean remains in the corner by the door where he can easily see all of the room. His gaze slides over the contents of the shelves, the floor, the desk, a new variety of disgust and discomfort slipping over his face for each item.

“Well,” Crowley says, leaning back in his seat and propping his boots up on the desk. “Since you don’t seem to be feeling terribly chatty, let’s get right to it shall we? Do you know where you’re heading next?”

Castiel glances at Dean.

The angel cross his arms. “Yes.”

“And where’s that?”

“It’s need to know. You’re not coming. Not your concern.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “It never hurts to cross reference.”

Dean doesn’t answer.

Crowley lets out a sigh, leaning forward to land both elbows on the desk. “I’ve done some research since last night. This first seal it seems was in Manhattan. Not a surprise given the reports that have been circling since the holidays. Attacks and sensitivity to light. All the conditions of the ’new illness’ point to biters. The second seems to have been North Dakota. Small town, almost imperceptible if it weren’t for the way weather’s been twisting around it. North Dakota’s only good for two things: the world’s largest buffalo, and ancient berserker blood lines. And that brings us to three. It seems Michigan has been seeing quite a number of animal attacks these past few days. New rabies strain they’re calling it. Very inventive. How’s that so far?”

Dean says nothing so Crowley looks to Castiel. Castiel gives a short nod.

“Right. Then that all seems to indicate that these seals, the first handful at least, appear around areas of condensed activity of supernatural beings that relate to the riders. And the next guest due to arrive is Death. Which really isn’t a stumper.”

“Ghosts?” Castiel tries. He glances at Dean. 

Dean rolls his eyes slightly but answers all the same: “Discontented spirits.”

“So you will be looking for the largest mass of unhappy spirits this country has to offer,” Crowley continues. “It’s a tricky list. Are you sure you’ve got it right?”

Dean pauses before he answers. “Pretty sure.”

“Oh good. The positivity is practically invigorating.”

“Where do you think it will be?” Castiel asks Dean.

Dean looks to Castiel, then to Crowley, and finally back to Castiel. His tightens his jaw. “Gettysburg.”

Crowley makes a snorting noise.

Dean glares at him. “It’s the right choice. If you look at the states it’s the one place where the more people died before their time in one period than any other. That leads to unsettled souls and that leads to spirits.”

“Angels. Always so by the book,” Crowley smiles. “Never look past the surface do you?”

“Oh right,” Dean snaps, “and I suppose you know exactly where we should be looking?”

“I have a hunch.”

“Enough,” Castiel says. He turns to Crowley. “If you know, then tell us.” He looks to Dean. “It doesn’t hurt to get all perspectives.”

“Look at this one,” Crowley grins. “Quite the little diplomat.”

“Answer the question,” Dean insists. 

Crowley leans back again. “When we’re looking at spirit activity, anger is the top factor. The sprits that create the strongest afterglow aren’t what you’d call the most chipper campers. Gettysburg is a fine guess in terms of death alone, and while soldiers aren’t exactly happy, the fear tends to rise higher in the consciousness than the anger. Gettysburg is the seemingly highest death toll for a battle in US soil. But it’s not.”

Castiel frowns. “It isn’t?”

“Far from it in fact. There’s another battlefield that saw far more death, and death of a particularly fury-inducing nature. And there’s a reason it’s not plastered in history books or slapped up in plaques. No one made any famous speeches about the loss, no politicians gather each year with flowers, because history of some shades slips into shadows.”

“Where?” Castiel asks.

Crowley smiles. “Have you ever heard of a place called Fort Pitt?”

“It was a British fort,” Castiel remembers. “From the Seven Years War.”

“Quick for the uneducated,” Crowley teases. “But what we’re concerned with here is a time during Pontiac’s Rebellion.”

Castiel tries to think. Minister Grey had been a very patient teacher when them as they grew up, but most of those lessons are still filled with memories Gabriel snapping erasers at his ear.

He focuses. The memory is there, shuffled under the whispers of Minister Grey’s sighing voice and Gabriel’s muffled laughter. But Minister Grey always made sure they knew the things that were worth knowing, no matter how wretched or ugly they were.

“Small pox,” he says. “They tried to give them smallpox.”

“The natives laid siege to the fort, and during negotiations the British officer in charge handed over several blankets as a sign of good faith. His diaries from the time clearly label it as one of the first attempts at biological warfare, and his hope was that the disease would decimate the opposing force from the inside out.”

“But no one knows, not even now,” Castiel says. “No one knows whether or not it was the blankets. The disease was already in some corners of the camp when the blankets arrived.”

“Doesn’t change the general source of the illness,” Crowley says. “At the very least it’s half a million quite livid individuals dying thanks to colonial greed. And Fort Pitt is a decent place to call ground zero for the entire biological massacre.”

“Decent place?” Dean pushes. “We’re not in this to risk it for a ‘decent’ place. We can’t miss another one.”

“Luckily for you, your stupid guess is quite close to my superior one,” Crowley continues. “Same state even. What is it hunter? You lot were always better at the roads.”

Castiel focuses. “Three hours. Three and a half between Pittsburgh and Gettysburg.”

“There,” Crowley concludes. “So even if by some staggering chance I’m wrong and you’re right, you can always just pop on over and pick up with hardly a few hours wasted. I’m guessing you feel it, these seals, when you get close enough?”

Dean can’t seen to avoid nodding.

“Good. Simple then.” 

Crowley leans back in the chair and crosses his fingers in front of his face. The tattoos on his knuckles make a series of different patterns depending on how they’re locked together, as if they were designed to give added purpose to each possible gesture or weave of his fingers.

“I want to talk to the hunter,” Crowley says.

“You’re talking to him,” Dean says.

Crowley keeps his relaxed expression fixed on Castiel’s face. “Alone.”

Dean snorts. “Right. I’ll just fuck off because you ask me to.”

Castiel looks back at the witch. The round, heavy-lidded eyes are focused, silent.

Castiel opens his mouth. “It’s fine. I’ll stay.”

Dean looks at him. “Uh, no I don’t think so.”

“Dean,” Castiel turns, looking at him directly. “I said it’s fine.”

Dean holds his gaze. Finally he shifts with a grumbled sigh, turning towards the door. He stops just in front of it. “I’ll be outside.” He looks to Crowley with a firm expression. “I can get back in. I don’t give a shit what hoodoo you’ve got wrapped around here. If I want to, I can get back in.”

“Very intimidating,” Crowley consoles.

Dean gives Castiel one more look and then steps out into the cold. The door swings shut behind him.

“He likes you,” Crowley observes.

“He’s just an ass,” Castiel says without thinking.

Crowley stands behind his desk, stepping around the thing and idly running a hand over the leather bound volumes on the table. Castiel tries not to feel too uneasy. He thinks the tattoos on the witch’s neck might be in a different place than last night. 

Crowley glances up at Castiel all charm and teeth. “You run that wiki, don’t you?”

Castiel can’t help being surprised. “What would make you say that?”

“I know a lot of hunters,” Crowley says. “And if I don’t know them, I know of them. Well enough to recognize. I don’t recognize you. I’ve never heard of a hunter like you. And I’ve certainly never heard of another Milton fighting the good fight. That’s the sort of thing that tends to travel.”

“I don’t like to be known,” Castiel says.

“Coming out of your brother’s mouth that could sound like a very different sort of sentence,” Crowley says. “But you’re not your brother are you. That wiki, I knew some hunter was running it, but I’d never met them or heard of them. Most hunters, despite themselves, under it all, are desperate to be known. When you cut them deep they’re all starved for five simple words: ‘You saved me. Thank you’. But that’s not you is it?”

Castiel frowns. “Hunters don’t work for praise.”

“No,” Crowley smiles, “but they all want to feel like heroes. No matter how much they pretend they don’t.”

Castiel tightens his jaw. “And what about hunters like me?”

Crowley laughs, low and light. “I don’t think there are hunters like you.”

“Then what about me?”

Crowley looks back at him, keen eyes sharp and calm. “I think you need it more than any of them.”

“And that’s why I’m ‘unknown’? Why no one knows what I do or who I am? Because I want to be called a hero?”

“No,” Crowley smiles. “That’s what makes you so much better at being a hero than all the rest.”

Castiel can’t seem to find anything to say to that. He narrows his gaze instead, tightening his posture in the close, diverse smells of the little room. “Is this what you wanted to say to me?”

“No,” Crowley says. He sits lightly on the edge of the desk. “I want to make sure you know what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

Castiel feels anger tighten behind his chest. “I can take care of myself. Just because I’m not plastered on the walls of hunter bars or whispered about in vampire dens doesn’t mean I’m incapable.”

“Not what I meant,” Crowley returns. “I know Luke. And I know Michael.”

“When did you meet Michael?”

“Fond memories. He tried to burn me,” Crowley answers sharply, “six years ago.”

Castiel stares. “He tried to burn you? Literally?”

“Oh yes,” Crowley reminisces. “It wasn’t a very long encounter. He managed to find the church I had been using at the time. I think it was some rundown swamp mess out in Louisiana. He’d been on a hunt in the town. I think some ponce of a marsh-witch ended up turning him onto me. He managed to seal the exits, which isn’t the simplest thing to do in my base-camps. Set the whole damn thing on fire. I made it out in the end, but,” Crowley twists his neck. There’s a long lick of smooth skin, a burn scar that twists around the back of his ear down to the collar of his shirt. The tattoos bleed and morph around the edges. “I have my mementos.”

“I’ve heard about Michael,” Castiel says firmly. “Many, many times.”

“Then you know you’ll have to kill him.”

Castiel swallows. “We might have to.”

“No. Not we. You. You will have to kill him.”

Castiel frowns. “I don’t—”

“Luke won’t,” Crowley says easily. “He thinks he can. He thinks that he’s strong enough. He’s not. And if you don’t kill Michael, he will kill Luke, and I for one would be far less comfortable living in a world where Michael Milton is standing and nothing’s left of Luke Milton but a fading whiskey smell, hunter myths, and some run-down truck rusting away to nothing in the woods behind a gas station.”

Castiel tries to connect the lines slipping behind his eyes. “It’s not as simple as one or the other. That’s why we’re here. Maybe we can save Michael still.”

“You don’t know Michael,” Crowley says simply. “It’s all or nothing with him, just like it was with his father. And in this case, ‘all’ means Luke doesn’t get the see the apocalypse crash down around us.”

“What do you mean?” Castiel frowns.

“There’s a trick to these sacrifices,” Crowley says, flipping open a book on the desk. The pages are littered with scrawled sharpie notes, highlighter slides, and sticky notes. “I spent the better part of my night on this. You’re welcome by the way. Old spells, truly old spells, can be a real bear. You read them long enough and you can feel the meaning twisting behind your eyes all on its own. You’re never exactly sure what their purpose is. I don’t think anyone ever knows for sure really. They have this habit of turning out to be just the opposite of what they say.”

“What about the sacrifices?”

“Ah yes. They have to hurt,” Crowley says.

“Isn’t that implied?” Castiel returns.

“No,” Crowley continues. “They have to hurt the one cutting the throats as well as the one being cut.”

“You mean physically? Isn’t he already spilling his blood as part of the spell?”

“Physically yes, but mentally more. It’s not a sacrifice unless it’s a struggle. That’s what started this all to begin with, and that’s what will finish it. The sacrifices must take their toll on the soul of the one carrying them out. Each one must hurt more than the last.”

Castiel focuses. “We don’t know who the first one was. Ingrid, the second, she must have been in her thirties. She was an innocent.”

“And hunters don’t kill the innocent.”

“Sandy,” Castiel stares at the mess of words on the table. “She was only fifteen.”

“Then next one will likely be even younger,” Crowley says. “But that won’t last through all seven. There’s only one person left who Michael cares about enough, whether he admits it or not, to open that final seal.”

The words slip across the pages under Castiel’s eyes. He can’t read them from here. They loop together, all scribbled nonsense and lost meaning. He doesn’t say the name. They both know it already.

“It’s going to have to be you in the end,” Crowley says. “If it isn’t, you’ll lose more than your brother. All of us bloody will.”

“Then why not help us?” Castiel asks suddenly.

Crowley gazes back at him. “It’s tempting. But I’m a good gambler. I only make bets I know I can win. And anyways, I don’t fancy spending any more time with Little Boy and Fat Man sitting on your shoulders.”

“They’re angels,” Castiel says. “They aren’t something we should be afraid of.”

“How’s that worked out so far?” Crowley narrows his eyes. “Have you met anything that wasn’t terrified of them?”

Castiel frowns. He thinks of the berserkers holding back in the dingy light of the darkened general store, the wendigos cowering as the sky lit up above. He thinks of Dean’s face, the stone of it, that green in his eyes like murky water hiding whatever else lies below.

“They’re here to help.”

“You better get down on those knees and pray that’s true,” Crowley smirks. “I’ve heard the stories about them. Especially your one there with the face that’s begging to be fucked. I know what they’ve done to the dirty little humans who sullied up their creator’s world.”

Castiel looks back at him firmly. “Is that all you want to say to me?”

Crowley returns the look. “Just about.”

“Good,” Castiel turns, heading for the door. Crowley snaps his fingers and the latch unlocks. Castiel snatches the handle quickly.

“Though I suppose,” Crowley continues idly, “anything that looks at you like that can’t be too much of a risk.”

Castiel stops, holding the cold metal of the handle for just a moment before pushing back out into reality.

The sun is somehow brighter than when the went inside. Or maybe the angle has just shifted enough to make the shadows of the hulking oak trees less effective in shielding the light. Castiel blinks hard, tugging his trench coat tighter and pushing across the field.

“Hey,” Dean’s voice calls, hurrying up behind him. He must have been leaning against the wall beside the door, waiting.

Castiel doesn’t answer him. He keeps moving, past the shed, towards the short shadows of the severed corn stalks that stretch for what seems like miles. 

“Where’re you going?” Dean asks.

“Nowhere.” 

“No seriously,” Dean continues. He’s still following him. “What’d that asshole have to say?”

“Nothing,” Castiel continues.

“Come on man,” Dean tries. He reaches out to grab Castiel’s shoulder, but Castiel manages to spin round fast enough to avoid it. Dean actually stumbles and that might be funny if his brain had any room for that right now.

Dean gets his balance again and glares up at him. “What’s your problem?”

“You,” Castiel says.

Dean stares back. “‘Scuse me?”

“You’re my problem,” Castiel continues. His heart’s beating in his chest, quicker and thicker than the short walk would give cause for. “What’s wrong with you?”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Uh. I wouldn’t mind a snack I guess. Could we go find one of those shitty diners you guys like?”

Castiel’s blood heats up in one rush and he needs to throw something, but there’s nothing. Just snow. So he throws that.

“Hey!” Dean yells. He tries to dodge but not fast enough. The snowball clunks against the side of his head, scattering up into his hair and dewing all along his cheek and neck. And suddenly Castiel’s even more angry.

“What’s your problem!?” Dean yells.

“That!” Castiel hears his voice suddenly shout. He points right at him. “That is my problem! You didn’t have to let that hit you. Why did you let that hit you?”

Dean stares at him with an infuriating expression of befuddlement. “Because you fucking threw it at me!”

“You’re an angel!” Castiel yells. “I watched you sword-fight so quickly I think I heard the sound barrier break at least five times, and now you’re letting me hit you with a snowball!”

“I didn’t let you do anything!” Dean insists. He flicks a bit of snow out of his ear and crosses his arms tightly in front of his chest. “But it’s good to know you remember that fight. You hadn’t said anything.”

Castiel stares. “Excuse me?”

“You hadn’t said anything,” Dean shrugs. 

“Are you… sulking?!”

“No! It’s just… well, the wings are pretty cool right? I mean I know they’re cool. And when we met you kinda ruined my entrance, and I didn’t get that whole ‘mortal awe’ thing which was a buzzkill. So you know, I figure you might have some stuff to say about the wings and the swords and how badass that fight was. Something.”

Castiel opens his mouth. Then shuts it. He stares off at absolutely nothing. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.”

“I asked Sam. He said Luke said his were pretty awesome. It’s not that I’m insecure or anything, I mean,” he scoffs, “come one, how could I be, honestly? But still.”

Castiel wants to hit him again but another snowball might just make him combust from the inside out. He’s not even sure when he started yelling. He doesn’t remember the last time he yelled. He doesn’t remember if he’s ever yelled.

“What are you?” Castiel snaps.

The angel shrugs, smile brilliant, cocky, and so, viciously obnoxious. “I’m Dean.”

“No-“ Castiel pushes, “what are you really? I don’t understand. One moment you’re burning down vampires with an expression like you’ve seen the end of worlds, and everything’s easy to believe: Jo talking about you and she and the work that you did. That demon with her stories. Crowley warning me that you’re something to be feared above all else. And I know it’s true! I do, because the way you look sometimes makes it impossible to doubt. I tell myself that I shouldn’t trust you, and that you don’t really care about the world or anyone in it. Because you’ve just about told me the same! And then,” he tries to breathe. It doesn’t work very well. “Then you stand there, and tell me I’ve hurt your feelings by not fanning your enormous ego and you let snowballs hit you in the side of the head—“

“I didn’t let anything—!”

“You sit in diners with rock t-shirts on and cram pie into your face, and try to control my radio, and complain when I don’t talk to you, and act like some ten-year-old that’s never gotten enough attention!” Castiel continues without pausing. “So tell me. What’s real? Are you some barely contained cosmic power of hatred and vengeance? Or—“

“What’s that?” Dean says suddenly, face set and stern, looking over Castiel’s shoulder.

Castiel turns.

The snowball hits the back of his head.

Dean’s already laughing behind him. Castiel let’s his eyes close slowly. He reaches up, sweeping the snow out of the back of his collar.

“See! It’s not all that easy,” Dean grins.

Castiel stares out at the field. The sky is perfectly clear, trees ancient and still, casting sharp crisp shadows against the cold. He takes a deep breath.

“There’s a diner half a mile back. We should still be within the protection spells that close. I’ll check with Crowley.”

“Awesome.”

 

Its been a while since Luke got this drunk. A year? Maybe a few years. He thinks last time there might have been a desert. He remembers talking to a cactus for a long while. Probably longer than he’s ever spoken to a human being. He wonders if the cactus remembers. Maybe everyone goes out in the desert to talk to that cactus and its sick of it by now. But it should expect that sort of thing. Very comforting. Cacti. Quite calming.

Luke snorts. His hand slides messily on the table and accidentally knocks the bottle off the counter’s edge. He catches it. Just. But he’s sure there wouldn’t have been a mess if it did fall. Apparently the house doesn’t like destruction. It would probably end up whole again, rolling across the floor like nothing had happened.

He’d done a few experiments after the first three drinks. The most enjoyable one had been the realization that the scotch bottle he found in the cabinet next to the fridge didn’t get less full the more you drank from it. He’d stared at it for five minutes straight waiting to see the liquid fill back up. But in the end he’d simply blinked and it had just been what it was before. The other bottles did the same thing when he tried them. The gin. The wine. The Everclear he found at the very back. He probably smells like an alcohol museum by now.

Alcohol museum isn’t a bad idea. Is there one? Must be.

He stands up. Almost. First try never goes that well. Not when he’s this far along. He tries again. This time it sticks. He keeps his hand on the stool for a moment just to make sure then carefully lets it go. 

Outside the moon is crashing over the mountains. There’s stars everywhere. So many stars. He blinks back at them. They must be fucking exhausted. Shining that hard, that long. And for what? You wouldn’t know one from the other. Were they scared maybe? They needed to give out something or else when they left no one would even know they were there at all. All alone. Plunked down in that void. Some of them were probably dead already. Maybe all of them. And what was it all for? Even things that shone so impossibly, unfathomably bright, in the end they were just a pinpoint, lost in a million others.

Useless.

He chuckles into the bottle as he let’s his lower lip catch around it. The glass is smooth. Warm. Has been for a while. He wonders which bottle it is. The burn slips around his tongue, all fire and ashes. Scotch then. 

“Hey,” a voice behind him calls.

He doesn’t answer. It’s easy to ignore. He’s had a lot of practice.

“Luke,” the voice pushes.

“I said,” he focuses firmly on the mountains, trying to convince his tongue not to trip over itself, “I want to be alone.”

“You’ve had enough of that.”

Luke laughs, turning around. The glass is cold against his back through the t-shirt. “Never enough of being alone.”

Sam frowns. He looks ridiculous from what he can see in the dark. Like evolution over centuries of sympathy pushed his entire forehead two inches lower than it’s supposed to go. With the moonlight and the mountains the room is nothing but blue.

“Stop it,” Sam says.

Luke points the bottle at him. “You know, it was much easier to like you when you weren’t real.”

Sam’s face is half in darkness. Luke doesn’t know if he’s glad for it or not.

“You’re drunk,” Sam says.

“You’re a liar.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Luke peers against the dark. He does want to see him. He’s decided now. He focuses and can almost catch the tightness in Sam’s jaw through the darkness.

“Hey,” Luke says. He takes a few shaky steps forward. “Hey come here, come over here—“

Sam doesn’t move.

Luke stops. Focuses. His makes his voice listen to him and sounds exactly the way he knows he needs to to. “Come here. Please.”

It takes Sam a moment, but finally he steps forward. Just a step. Just enough to see his face properly in the indigo light. 

“I want to ask you something,” Luke says. His voice is getting away from him again but it doesn’t matter. “I wanted to ask, for awhile, but I didn’t. I’m going to.”

“Luke,” Sam tries. There’s something pained in his expression, a firm line drawn down between his brows.

Luke ignores it. He’s started. It’s too late to stop.

“Why now?” he asks.

Sam opens his mouth. Then shuts it.

“Huh?” Luke pushes.

“I… don’t understand.”

“Why,” Luke starts. The bottle’s heavy in his hand. He takes a deep swallow. It doesn’t feel any lighter. “Why now? Why’d you have to turn into something real?”

“The world was going to end,” Sam says. His voice is quiet, stare constant.

“So let it.”

“You don’t want that.”

“Maybe I do. Maybe it’s better,” Luke says. He swallows. “I wouldn’t have known. If it ends. When it ends. If you hadn’t come here, I wouldn’t have known. Castiel wouldn’t have known. Maybe, one day, just ‘poof’. And you would have always been a dream.” He focuses firmly on Sam’s eyes. They’re nothing but dark in the blue light. “I’d rather have a dream than a liar.”

There’s a sound down the hall. The door probably. It’s late. He should have remembered there was a world outside this house.

“You should stop drinking,” Sam says. He isn’t looking at him. “You’re going to be sick.”

“Fuck you.”

“Hello?” Castiel’s rough voice calls from the hallway, as if he hasn’t heard exactly what’s happening.

“This is ominous,” Dean frowns, switching on the lights.

Luke blinks hard as the cheery light floods the space. The mountains vanish. The stars vanish. Suddenly it’s just the room and three confused faces reflected back at him in the glass where before there was nothing but silence and cold.

“Having a conversation!” he yells back at them.

“Shit, how much did he drink?” Dean asks.

Castiel is staring at him. As if he’s someone he doesn’t know. And that just makes everything absolutely perfect. 

Luke closes his eyes, turning to the kitchen. He raises the bottle up to his lips again. But suddenly, the bottle’s gone.

He opens his eyes. There’s nothing in his hand. 

“You’ve had enough,” Sam’s voice says.

Luke blinks. His hand closes. It takes one swipe to knock all the other bottles onto the floor. They do break after all. At least for a moment. The noise is surprising satisfying.

“Hey!” Dean’s voice yells. “Take it easy!”

“I have,” Luke spins, and just manages not to fall down. “Its been so fucking easy. Years and years of easy. How many again? What did you say? Seven hundred and thirty years? How many days? I forget, honestly, I stopped counting somewhere around fifty years. Lost count. Stupid. It was all just so dull, they really started to blend together.”

“Luke—” Castiel starts. 

“You said you’d come.” He’s looking right back at Sam. He doesn’t know why he stopped. “You lied.”

“That’s enough,” Dean says. But Luke’s not listening to him. He’s stepping closer to Sam.

“You said you’d come. You didn’t come. I waited. And I don’t know why. I told myself you weren’t real. That it was a dream. But I thought you were coming. All the same. Because I needed something. Anything. But it wasn’t a dream. And you didn’t come.”

Sam stares right back at him. His expression hasn’t changed. He doesn’t say a word.

There’s something wet on Luke’s hand. Warm.

“You’re bleeding,” Castiel says. His voice is as flat as Sam’s face.

Luke blinks. He lifts his hand and uncurls the fingers. There’s a cut that runs across the bottom of three knuckles. Sticky red smears against the rest of his palm. As he watches the wound is already closing. Just like the bottle that never stay broken. Fucking magic. It never knows when to get it right.

He laughs once to himself, and closes his hand again. He manages to turn around without slipping on the shiny wood of the floor. He manages to climb the stairs without falling even once. No one’s following him. He doesn’t know if he’s glad or not. And when he finally hits the bed he’s too far towards sleep already to ask himself not to dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys - this fic is on an indefinite hiatus. I might come back to it, I might not, but thank you for reading!
> 
> I also won't be checking comments for a while, so thank you in advance for your kind words and/or critiques.


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